


Pretty Little Things

by Petronille



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Dark Romance, Destructive Relationship, F/M, Hannibal/OFC, iniquity & secrets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2017-12-13 04:22:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 47,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/819927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petronille/pseuds/Petronille
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They all had their muses: Shakespeare his dark lady, Dante his Beatrice, Rossetti his Lizzie Siddal, Fitzgerald his Zelda. So did the Chesapeake Ripper. Victoria Landry had a taste for vengeance, and Hannibal Lecter was all too willing to turn it into something else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

_August, 2006._

The name of Claire Sawyer's daughter had been splashed all over the tabloids and newspapers, was the topic of every conversation on the twenty-four-hour news networks, was on the lips of every gossip-loving fool.

Claire Sawyer and her third husband left their posh Beverly Hills digs to stand in support of the girl. They did what they could to avoid the journalists and paparazzi, going so far as to take the third husband's private jet to a small airport outside of Washington, D.C., and renting an inconspicuous car from there. The Hollywood lawyer was there that afternoon.

It was the Hollywood lawyer, Louis Berman, who called Dr. Hannibal Lecter, begging him to come to Washington, D.C., and to the psychiatric hospital at which the girl was ensconced.

"She won't speak to me  _or_  to her stepfather," Claire Sawyer remarked, her heavily Botoxed brow hardly moving. "She'll only talk to Lou. She told me..." Her voice trailed off, and she clapped her hand over her mouth to muffle a sob.

"What did she say to you?" Hannibal Lecter asked her, keeping his voice as measured as possible.

"She told me to go to hell."

* * *

Victoria Landry. Aged twenty-five. Working toward a master's degree in English literature at Georgetown. Until tonight. Until she had shot the man who had been stalking her for six years. She looked so young—much younger than her years—with her damp hair pulled back and her face free of makeup. She was lying on the bed, dressed in the hospital scrubs that served as the facility's uniform. She watched warily as he walked in, and she slowly sat up, her dark blue eyes not leaving him.

"Is it all right if I sit down, Miss Landry?" he asked her, indicating the chair close to the bed. She seemed to be appraising him, his well-pressed suit, his polished air, his professional detachment. She nodded, and he settled into the chair, folding his long hands together, meeting her gaze levelly.

"So you're the doctor, then, the one they called in all the way from Baltimore?" Her voice was soft, a little hoarse from fatigue and shock.

"Yes, your attorney called me to come speak with you and to give my professional opinion," he replied, and she inclined her head.

"So will you say I'm crazy?"

"That depends on your contribution to this...session, Miss Landry. Victoria."

She blinked twice, then began to chew on her thumbnail. "Is he dead?"

"From what I've heard, he is still in ICU and in critical condition."

"Do you think I'll be charged with anything?"

He shook his head. "I can't say, Miss Landry. You should ask your lawyer that question. Now will you please answer mine?"

She drew a trembling breath. "Go ahead."

"Robert McCarren. Why did you shoot him?"

She licked her lips. "He broke into my apartment. I was asleep, and I heard the noise, and it spooked the cat...Oh, God, the cat! Is...is she okay?"

"Why not ask your mother about your cat? I'm sure she's taken pains to make sure Pussy is well cared for."

Her eyes narrowed then, and he could see that he'd hit a nerve. "Your mother says that you asked her to leave and told her to go to hell. I've always heard she was a terrible actress. It seems that she was overdramatizing this little scene as well," he went on, and he saw her lean forward. Now that she wasn't hidden by the half-light of the room, he could see the souvenirs of her altercation with her stalker. A split bottom lip, a bruised left cheek, the purple marks of fingers on her otherwise pale neck.

"She told me I shouldn't have been nice to him all those years ago, the summer I was home from freshman year of college. She told me that going to the police and the restraining orders and the arrests only made it worse. Like I asked for this—like I fucking asked for this," she scoffed. "It was him or me...and I chose me."

"And he's in the hospital with two bullet wounds to his torso."

She took the styrofoam cup from the bedside table, sipping at the water contained in it. "So?"

"And you don't care?" he pursued, and she watched him as he unfolded his hands, as he placed each one carefully on the plastic arms of the chair.

"I  _do_  care," she insisted. "Because I now I know he'll get off with a light sentence or plead out, and as soon as he's out of jail, he'll come back for me to finish what he started.

"So you wish for an alternate outcome?"

She was honest. "Of course I do."

"And what outcome would you have wanted?"

She said it calmly, as though she were just talking about the weather.

"I wish I'd killed him."

* * *

"She is perfectly lucid now, but she may have been in a dissociative state when she shot him," Hannibal Lecter told Louis Berman, who took down notes on what he said in earnest. "It is comparable to the state of mind of a battered woman when the last beating is the straw that breaks the camel's back...and she kills her abuser, her husband."

"You saw her bruises?" Berman queried, and Lecter nodded briskly, wrinkling his nose at the reek of overgenerously applied Polo cologne. "Pretty bad, aren't they?"

"Reprehensible." The cologne, more than the bruises.

"Yeah, I'll admit it shook me up, too, to see them." Berman shook his head. "I've known Victoria since she was a teenager, and that creepo was sleazing around the property trying to get a look at her when she was in her senior year of high school. He was the next-door neighbor's fuck-up kid. Nothing wrong with him, not mentally, not physically. But he was really twisted—you know?" Berman twirled the forefinger of his left hand by his temple to indicate craziness. "If Gus Landry were alive, he'd have already gotten shit taken care of."

"And the man she shot—the cree-po?" Hannibal Lecter asked softly, the word alien on his tongue. "What is his condition?"

"Stable, not in a coma. She got him in the shoulder and stomach. She should have aimed higher."

"She'd been beaten, almost strangled. Her response was only natural."

"So you think it was self-defense, too?"

"I would say that it was very obviously self-defense. And Mr. Berman..."

"Yes, Dr. Lecter?"

"She asked about her cat."

* * *

He returned to her hospital room about an hour later, his face alight with some secret mirth. She turned down the volume of the television and watched him as he took a few steps toward her, coming to the side of the bed.

"Your mother," he told her succinctly, "says that your cat is in good health."

She smiled. "Thank you," she said. "My mom...she's..."

"Difficult?" he supplied.

"To put it mildly."

He chuckled at this, seemingly amused. "Has she always been this way...Victoria?"

He called her by her full name, like she'd always preferred, not like how her mother had tried to make her into a Tori or how McCarren had called her Tora (where he'd come up with  _that_  she couldn't say and didn't even want to think about). "We've haven't been able to understand each other since my father died," she explained.

"You were fifteen," he surmised grimly, his lids half-closing over his dark eyes. "It must have been a shock."

She crossed her legs, sitting Indian style. "Since then, it's always been, 'Who's going to take care of me?' with her. My mom is...needy. She wants someone to take care of her, she wants to depend on someone. She needs that kind of validation."

"She didn't get it from you, did she? Does she hold any resentment toward you, the kind that you hold toward her?"

She deliberated, brushing her blond bangs out of her face. "You're right. I don't."

He wandered to the chair he had appropriated earlier, sitting down in it. He frowned up at the movie she was watching for a moment. "Then you're a rare creature. Victoria."

* * *

The conversation that ensued was...so easy.

He asked her about what she was studying, why she had chosen to get a master's degree in English literature.

He explained to her that her attorney was pleased at his opinion, that no doubt they could pursuade the judge it was self-defense.

She found some of her anger and frustration with her mother dissipating.

They shared a passion for art, though, unlike him, she couldn't draw to save her life.

She told him of how scared she had been, how she would shut herself in her apartment for days at a time, how some nights she'd seen McCarren standing below her bedroom window. He tutted at this, asking about how her boyfriends took it.

"They didn't last long. He scared them away...or I got skittish and told them to go."

"And for how long did this go on?"

"Six years."

"Six years that he stole from you."

She murmured an assent.

"Six years during which you should have been living life to its fullest. And he locked you in a cage."

_You're mine. Why can't you see that? I want you, you're mine. I'll fucking take what I want...and you'll like it and tell me you love me..._

She felt the squeezing around her heart, felt her throat constrict. Her hands began to shake, and her heart began to beat more quickly.

She heard the words again, whispered in her ear, his hot breath inches away and his hand around her neck—squeezing, threatening to break the delicate bones-until she'd reached and dealt him a blow with the heel of her hand, breaking his nose. He'd let off then, and she'd felt blood spill onto her neck as she'd writhed away from him, grabbed his hand as he'd reached out to grab her, bending three fingers back until she'd heard a sickening crack and his howl of pain. She'd stumbled up, reached under the side table for the gun, and shot, not once, but twice, and she'd been ready for a third time, if the police hadn't stopped her...

"And now you'll be free...for awhile. How does that make you feel, Victoria?" Hannibal Lecter was beside her, proffering a Xanax from one of the medicine bottles that had been brought from her apartment. She took it, her fingers just briefly passing over the smooth, reassuring skin of his palm, and he handed her the cup of water so that she could sip.

_Focus. Calm yourself._

She closed her eyes, letting the air fill her lungs, slowly exhaling it out.

"Good girl. Keep breathing."

He stood there beside her, his face impassive as her panic attack passed, as the Xanax helped bring her down.

_Six years._

_And all that time I didn't know._

"You want to know how it makes me feel?" she quavered, wiping the tears from her eyes. "Terrified. Absolutely terrified."

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Hannibal_ , but all original characters are mine. This was inspired by a poem and there is a playlist, but I will share later.**

**  
This takes place before and during the series. Please be aware that there are time jumps starting with this chapter; they help to explain what occurred in the past while moving the present plot along.**

 

**And may I just say that if you're ever stalked or sexually assaulted, it isn't your fault and you're not alone, and there are people who want to help you. If you need assistance or resources, please go to RAINN's website; they are a truly wonderful organization.**

 

**Pretty Little Things**

 

**Chapter Two**

 

He came to see her the next day, in the morning, bringing with him two pieces of brioche and a venti mocha from the closest Starbucks, laying them neatly on the table in front of her. She noticed that he only partook of his own coffee, and when she offered him some brioche, he declined.

 

“Your mother said you liked the brioche,” he said. “I bought it for _you_.”

 

The emphasis on _you_ , the way he leaned over and pushed the brioche toward her, the way he lifted his eyes to her face in earnest--all of it seemed so effortless on his part. If anything, it was a peace offering, perhaps because of yesterday and what he had triggered.

 

“Thank you,” Victoria said. He watched her as she picked at it, as she nearly guzzled the coffee. “It's so much better than the crap they have here,” she explained. “The food is like dorm food, and the coffee...”

 

“Yes, the coffee is terrible,” he agreed, and she had to laugh at that. “Maybe next time—if you'll let me—I'll bring the brioche that I make myself.”

 

“You know how to make brioche?” Victoria said incredulously. “ _Good_ brioche?”

 

“You would have to taste it and see for yourself,” he told her, smiling slightly, the skin around the corners of his eyes crinkling. And then he grew more serious. “That is, if you would like to continue with me after today.”

 

She swallowed the bit of brioche in her mouth, and it felt dry as it went down her throat. “Then you know...what...where...”

 

“I know nothing other than what you youself, your mother, your attorney, and the doctors attending you have told me,” he told her pointedly.

 

She bit her lips, and she she stared down at her bitten nails, not wanting to meet his gaze. “He...he touched me.”

 

She heard the seat squeak as Lecter leaned forward. “What do you mean? _Who_ touched you?”

 

“McCarren.” She closed her eyes, not wanting to remember it. “When he had me pinned down squeezing my neck, when he was whispering to me, he touched me.”

 

“And do the police know this?”

 

“Of course they do, but the charge might not stick, they said. The home invasion and violation of a restraining order are enough, and even the assault...the physical one...”

 

She looked up at him again, and while his face remained impassive, the corners of his mouth tightened. “You've been through a terrible ordeal, then. I hope the police understand why you shot him.”

 

“My father had friends here. Friends with money and influence. They—the police—know that, and...” She trailed off, blinking back tears. “To be honest, I wish he were here now. Just so that he could tell me everything was going to be all right.”

 

“You don't believe that?”

 

She hesitated. “I do, but the worry always creeps up...”

 

“You've had to look over your shoulder and worry for a very long time,” he interrupted. “It is normal to worry, but don't let that worry overtake you. At least not today.”

 

“So everything is going to be all right?” she said.

 

He took a sip of his coffee, smiling wanly. “Only if you allow it to be.”

 

******

 

_October, 2012._

 

“It's a summer camp for disadvantaged children,” Louis told her as she looked over the promotional material that had been brought to her. “It's run by a _very_ wealthy Virginia family. Old money, really old money. They thought we'd be interested.”

 

Victoria flipped through the glossy pages of the pamphlet, reading carefully over the blurbs that highlighted the positive things that the camp did for underprivileged children. It wasn't unlike the Cedar Mountain Settlement School that her college sorority had chosen as its national philanthropy, but it just came packaged like it was a resort for poor kids.

 

“So what is it supposed to do—give these kids a taste of what they'll never have?” she said, picking up her mug of jasmine green tea.

 

“It's charity, Victoria. They're just trying to _not_ look like assholes.”

 

Victoria snorted out a laugh. “Good way to put it. I'm thinking ten thousand. At first.”

 

Louis nodded. “I can get the check cut by next week, and I'll get back with them tonight, then.”

 

Victoria smiled. “Good. And when we tour the camp to see what our money has done, we'll see whether or not they're assholes.”

 

******

 

She stopped at her apartment on the one side of town to pack up the rest of her things. And then she drove to see him on the other side of the city. It wasn't easy, with him and his practice and with her running the trust foundation that her father had had set up in his will, but they made do. Weekends were their principle time together, when he would come to her or when she would go to him, though often it was easier for her to go to him because she could work remotely from his home. It had been that way for some time, but after she'd turned thirty-one this past March, she'd gotten to thinking of a baby, and so had he, but they hadn't gotten things worked out. Not yet.

 

Her mother hadn't approved of the relationship, but had relented eventually. But then of course there were things that her mother didn't know about and didn't need to know about. Just like there were things that he did that she didn't want to know about.

 

There were things he had helped her cope with, things of darkness and obsession that had made her feel dirty though nothing had been her fault. He had helped her to replace that memory with another one night, knowing what she'd needed, asking...no, commanding...

 

_Tell me what you want me to do, Victoria._

 

_I want you to..._

 

Victoria knew he'd fallen for her then, or that she'd gotten to him then, because he'd bought the last remaining print of the _Hamlet_ promotional poster from the Shakespeare festival at her college in 1999, the one in which she had been photographed as Ophelia after John Singer Sargent's painting. She remembered how pleased he had been at his new acquisition, how he had come to her, putting his hand on the small of her back and asking her if he ought to place it someplace else.

 

Things were different. With him, at least.

 

He'd given her safety— _after_ \-- and then a way out, a cover for them both, a sort of pantomime just to show the world that now, everything _was_ all right.

 

But then there had been _that_ birthday present...

 

_Keep my secrets, and I'll keep yours..._

 

******

 

The last pregnancy test she had taken was negative.

 

He didn't blame her, per se.

 

They knew when she was ovulating and fertile, but of course, things had happened. With work, or this, or that.

 

She only hoped that next time, the test would be positive.

 

******

 

This house.

 

She always felt safe whenever she walked into this house.

 

It was the very embodiment of him, and he'd found a place for her here, among his furniture and paintings and books and all of it. There, in the hallway that led from the great room to the dining room, hung the photograph, framed, and there she was, at nineteen, with the whole world in front of her and a shadow watching her every move.

 

“Do you know how many compliments I still receive on that?” she heard him ask. “I had a guest over for dinner last night, and he asked if I knew who the Ophelia was.” She felt him behind her, and he gently placed his hands on either of her shoulders, burying his nose into her hair. She found herself leaning back into him, into the broadness of his chest.

 

“What did you tell him?” she replied.

 

“I told him that Ophelia has a very special place here, all her own.”

 

“What did he say?” She turned to face him now, and he smiled down at her.

 

“He said that he should have put two and two together.” He smoothed back her hair, then rested his hand on her cheek. “And that I have excellent taste.”

 

That could be taken in a number of ways, and she managed a laugh even though the multiple meanings crossed her mind. He seemed pleased with her response, pressing his lips to her forehead. “I am glad that you are home,” he said cordially, as cordially as he would speak to anyone else.

 

******

 

Once, after she'd found out what he really was about, she asked him if he would ever kill her.

 

They had been home on a Friday night, after dinner was over. She had been reading an anthology of American short stories on her Kindle and had just finished _The Yellow Wallpaper_. The title of the next short story sent chills up her spine when she came to it: _The Most Dangerous Game_. He had heard her sharp intake of breath, and he had slowly glanced up with his drawing, his face inquisitive.

 

“What is it, Victoria?”

 

She rose from the chair she had been sitting in and walked over to him, showing him the title of the short story. He glanced at it as if it were of little consequence, absently reaching for the scalpel with which he sharpened his pencil.

 

“Would you...” she began, and before she could finish the question, he shook his head.

 

“No, I wouldn't,” he answered with perfect aplomb.

 

“You wouldn't?”

 

“No. It would be a foolish thing to do, and I take no pride in being a foolish man.” He turned his attention back to the drawing, and she stood there, her jaw slack, not believing that the conversation had just occurred. He seemed to grow agitated, and he put the pencil down, sighing. He pushed his chair back and rose from the table, going to the wine cabinet and pouring them each a glass of pinot noir. He set the glasses on the coffee table before he took a place on the sofa, patting the cushion beside him. She went to him, sitting down.

 

It was a convoluted explanation, but what she got from it was this: He prized all of the things in his collections, and he prized her, too.

 

In short, she was his pretty thing. And it would be a shame to dispose of her when he prized her so.

 

******

 

She showed him the promotional material she had gotten from the youth camp. He perused it as she got ready for bed.

 

“Has anyone you know ever worked with the Vergers?” she asked him as she sat down on his bed. “Is their program worth it? I know they did a lot with displaced kids after Hurricane Katrina, but...”

 

“They are major donors to Johns Hopkins,” he answered. “The older children and the mother are very active in the philathropies they run.”

 

“So it's worth it?”

 

“If you deem it worthy of your money, then it is worthy,” he said decisively. “It is your trust. All of the final decisions are yours to make.” He folded up the pamphlet and brochure neatly, handing them to her so that she could set them on the bedside table. “All of them.”

 

******

 

Sometimes in her dreams he offered her a pomegranate, and the sticky juice that dripped from it was as red and thick as blood. She would eat the seeds, one by one, counting, until he would take it away after she had eaten six of them.

 

He would then lead her by the hand to the corner of the room that lie in shadows, and he would turn on the light to reveal McCarren, tied down to it and gagged. And he would hand her the scalpel, direct her how to hold it, but her hand trembled so much that he placed his own over hers to steady the incision. McCarren howled into the gag, but the noise subsided when she reached in and closed her hand over his still-beating heart while Hannibal stepped around her to make the necessary cuts to extract it.

 

She watched as Hannibal took the liver for himself. _I know how much you despise liver._

 

They would then be seated at the dining room table, and they would each be partaking of the meat they had just acquired. And for dessert, Hannibal would give her the rest of the pomegranate, watching with shining eyes as she finished the last of the seeds. When she was done, he would pull her to him and kiss her with a violence with which she was unaccustomed.

 

Tonight she awakened with a gasp, her heart pounding.

 

She wished it was just a nightmare.

 

But it wasn't.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Hannibal_ , but all original characters are mine.**

 

**Chapter Three**

 

_August, 2006._

 

Claire Sawyer's third husband, Stuart Halloran, had the eternal reek of cigarettes and cheap bourbon about him, but he paid Lecter quite well for services rendered and covered all of the travel expenses. He rubbed at the tip of his nose, which was ruddy from years of too much whiskey and, Lecter didn't doubt, moonshine.

 

“They call him the Fertilizer King,” Victoria said laughingly as they walked through the deserted hallways that evening.

 

“You do not like him?” he asked, watching as her fingers grazed the wall.

 

“I like him. He takes good care of my mom. She needs that.”

 

“And who takes care of you, when you need it?”

 

She stopped, glancing at him resolutely. “I can take care of myself, but Louis has always been there. And there's my grandparents—my mom's parents. They're also in California.” She smiled up at him, and he noticed how it rounded out her cheeks. “Clearly you have someone to take care of you when you need it.”

 

He inclined his head, raising an eyebrow. “Why do you say that?” he asked her.

 

“Look at you. Your suits are always ironed, and whoever picks them out does a really good job. Whoever she is, she must care about you a lot.” She started walking again, and he followed suit.

 

“You are wrong, Victoria. There is no one,” he said to her, and her brows raised for a split second before lowering again.

 

“Oh,” was all she said.

 

“You seem to find it unusual that my sense of purpose comes from my work and not from what you or anyone else might.”

 

“I never said that,” she riposted. “It just seems that way. Now I know it _isn't_ that way.”

 

They continued on for some moments in silence. She seemed to be preoccupied, chewing on her lower lip, and he wondered what she was thinking about.

 

“They're letting me go home tomorrow,” she told him absently. “You'll be there, won't you—to help me if it's difficult?”

 

“What is it you would have me do?” he asked her, and she shrugged, a quick up-and-down movement of small shoulders.

 

“I don't know.” She turned her face up to his, her tone beseeching. “Just say you'll be there tomorrow, at least, please? I would like you there...”

 

“I will have to return to Baltimore after that,” he warned her. “My practice is there, and I have other patients who need me to be there for their appointments.”

 

“I know,” she replied, lowering her eyes to stare down at her slippered feet.

 

“You can, of course, make appointments with me in Baltimore,” he went on. “We can pretend that you have some very deep-seated issues that you need to address, and you think that psychoanalysis is the best way to fix them. Or you can see your own therapist and continue the treatments you're pursuing now.”

 

She let him walk her back to her room, and it seemed as though she were processing what he had just said. He bid her good night, and she murmured the same to him very softly.

 

*****

 

The following day, he went to the hospital with her parents and the Hollywood lawyer to collect her, and he rode with them to her apartment. Her mother was holding her hand, and she seemed to be listening to whatever it was her mother was saying about breaking the lease and renting a new apartment if she wanted to.

 

She looked very small and vulnerable right now, calm only because of the Xanax which he had recommended that she take before leaving the hospital. Claire Sawyer mentioned something about having her come out to California for the summer and going here and there, and all she did was smile wanly at her mother.

 

It was an upstairs apartment, a very nice one by many standards, paid for by the money that Gus Landry had left in trust for her education. The door had been repaired, the locks changed, but once they entered the apartment, the signs of the struggle were still there: the glass top had been knocked from the coffee table and had split in half, blood stained the dark beige carpet, two empty shell casings littered the spot from which Victoria had shot.

 

A cat meowed, emerging from the bedroom door that had been left ajar. It stretched, eyeing each of them warily, until it made its way to Victoria and rubbed against her legs, meowing and looking up at her every now and again.

 

Victoria seemed to grow more distressed as she surveyed the damage done to the apartment, the furniture, the two framed paintings knocked off the wall, the framed photographs that had fallen on the floor. And when Lecter saw the small specks of blood on one of the walls, closest to the kitchen, and the bruise on the side of Victoria's face, he understood now how determinedly she had fought back.

 

Victoria grew pale, and she removed her mother's hand from her forearm and hurried to the bathroom, where he could hear her getting sick. Claire made a move to go to Victoria, but Stuart put his hand on her shoulder, allowing Lecter to go to Victoria.

 

She had indeed gotten sick, and he came in to see her flushing the toilet. She found her toothbrush and toothpaste and brushed her teeth, and he could see the tears shimmering in her eyes. Once she had rinsed her mouth, she sat down on the toilet and turned her face up to him. “I can't stay here,” she stated, wiping her eyes. “I can't live here after that...after what he did...”

 

He reached out to brush a strand of hair out of her eyes. He found that her hair was soft against his fingers, and he told her, very gently, “You should say that to your mother, not to me.”

 

“I will,” she said, swallowing. “But I wanted you to know first.”

 

He held out his hand to help her up, and she took it. His fingers closed over hers, holding them firmly, and he led her into the living room.

 

******

 

There were no charges filed against Victoria.

 

There were, however, charges filed against Robert McCarren, whose parents provided him with a highly priced attorney, yet who eventually ended up pleading out, which meant that he received a reduced sentence.

 

Victoria was there for the sentencing, clad simply in a black sheath dress and a pale blue cardigan, as the twenty-four-hour news networks showed. McCarren turned in her direction and made a foul, suggestive gesture at her before he could be stopped.

 

And that was when Hannibal Lecter decided that once Robert McCarren was out of prison, he would have to die.

 

******

 

There was something dark and dangerous in Victoria Landry. Something that lay deep within the folds of her heart, something she tried not to acknowledge. Something that could be fine-tuned, like an old, out-of-use piano. Something that, along with all of her other attributes, he found very appealing.

 

He could no longer be her psychiatrist after that, he told her.

 

But he could be ever so much more to her.

 

******

 

_October, 2012._

 

“What were you dreaming about?” His voice was soft in her ear, and she felt his hand on her waist, ever so lightly.

 

She rolled over to face him, and she smiled at him wanly. “It was just a bad dream, about bad memories.” Which was true enough.

 

“Bad memories stemming from anything we have done?” he pursued.

 

She brought her hand to his cheek, shaking her head. “From before.” She was sure that he could tell she was lying, but it didn't matter now. “Maybe you could help chase them away.”

 

He understood that it was an invitation, and he leaned over to kiss her.

 

******

 

From a very young age, she had learned to separate the parts of a person from the whole. It had been that way with her father while he was in a manic episode, because that was when she loved him most, because he would take her places and buy her things and show off his beautiful, bright daughter, his only child, the unexpected little gift that had come to him late in his life. She had been able to do so with her mother, up until she had started college and found her mother to be almost whiny and demanding. Which was why it was good her stepfather fulfilled the needs that Victoria couldn't.

 

It was that way with Hannibal Lecter. She could almost say she loved the man on the surface, but she had learned to disregard that part of him that made him a monster. She found it easy to forget that the hands that brought her so much pleasure and touched her so tenderly were also capable of unspeakable brutaility.

 

Except at night when the dreams came unbidden.

 

******

 

He let her hold him for a few moments after he had finished so that he could catch his breath. “Did I chase the demons away?” he asked her as he rose from the bed, going into the bathroom.

 

“You did.” She stood up, making her way to the bathroom after he was done in there. He gathered up her pajamas and panties, presenting them to her in a very gentlemanly fashion. She frowned over the marks from his hands on her hips from when he had grasped her a little too tightly at one particular moment, and then the shadow of his teeth on her shoulder from when he'd nipped her.

 

“You're coming back to bed, aren't you, Victoria?” Hannibal called as she put the hand towel in its designated place on the counter.

 

She came out of the bathroom and returned to his bed beside him. She felt him draw her close, felt his arm around her, felt him resting his chin on the top of her head. She always loved it when he held her like this, and she let her hand graze his forearm as she placed her hand on top of his. She imagined, for a moment, that he was almost sorry for all of it, for what he'd brought out in her, for dragging her into his world, for the secrets she must keep and the lies she must tell.

 

But no. She would only be fooling herself.

 

Hannibal Lecter would never be sorry for any of it.

 

******

 

He made her some breakfast the following morning, telling her about how he had been called to Quantico that week to put together a profile for the FBI as he did so. Victoria was impressed; Jack Crawford, the head of the Behavioral Unit, had come to Hannibal directly and sat in the waiting room for a good amount of time before being allowed into Hannibal's study.

But something also brought a chill to her heart.

 

“Hannibal.”

 

He glanced up from the Provençal omelets he was making. He must have seen the question on her face, must have heard her heart beating as quickly as a hummingbird beat its wings, must have smelled the sudden anxiety. “Before you ask the question, Victoria, it was regarding a case the FBI is working on in Minnesota. They needed a psychiatrist to develop a profile on their profiler.”

 

“A profile on their profiler?” she echoed, turning her attention back to her emails, chuckling at his little joke. He seemed more occupied with something else now.

 

“Was that what you dreamed about last night, Victoria?” he asked her mildly. “Were you dreaming about what happened with Robert McCarren _after_ he was paroled?”

 

She hesitated, sipping at her coffee as though she were thinking of the best way to say it to him when really she was thinking of _what_ to say to him.

 

“It all jumbles together,” she answered at length. “But most of it was from before. I'm sorry I didn't tell you about all of it last night.”

 

He transferred the omelets from the skillet to the plates. Picking up the plates, he sauntered to the other side of the counter where she had been sitting on one of the bar stools. “Do you dream of it often?” he persisted as he set each plate down.

 

She shook her head. “No, Hannibal.” She reached for his hand and took it into hers, staring up at him earnestly. He pressed the back of her hand to his lips. She wanted to ask him, _What exactly do I mean to you, Hannibal?,_ but she dared not to because she might not like his answer, because all of _this_ could disappear after that.

 

He untied and removed the apron he had been wearing, sitting down on the other stool beside her. “How is it?” he asked her eagerly, watching as she finished chewing her first mouthful.

 

“Very good. You've outdone yourself. As always,” she complimented, raising her coffee mug. He raised his own and clinked it against hers.

 

“I think I've spoiled you for anyone else,” he remarked jovially, his sculpted features bearing an ironic expression. “Does that bother you, Victoria?”

 

She tilted her head, and then nudged at his leg with her toe, smiling crookedly. “Whoever said I wanted anyone else?”

 

******

 

_September, 2006._

 

It was during her second session with him at his office in Baltimore that he told her he could no longer be her psychiatrist.

 

“Why not?” she mustered as she felt the blood draining from her face. “I—I thought that things were going well.”

 

He calmly finished writing something in his notebook, closed it, and brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve. “Oh, they are going well for _you_. But I fear that it wouldn't be ethical for me to continue seeing you as a patient.”

 

“Okay,” she said, still not believing that this was happening right here, right now. “So can you recommend another doctor for me to see, then, if you still think I should see one?” As he went to his desk to gather the information for her, she continued, “Will you tell me _why_ you think it would be unethical for you to continue to treat me?”

 

He didn't answer her question until he handed her the piece of paper with the list of psychiatrists and psychologists and their contact information on it. He brushed his thumb over hers before he relinquished the paper, and then he replied, “Because I would like us to be more than just doctor and patient, Victoria.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Hannibal_ , but all original characters are mine. **

 

Playlist:

 

 _Your Heart Is as Black as Night,_ Melody Gardot

 

 _Chasing Pavements_ , Adele

 

 _Runaway,_ Yeah Yeah Yeahs

 

 _Strange & Beautiful (I'll Put a Spell on You),_ Aqualung

 

**Pretty Little Things**

 

**Chapter Four**

 

_January, 2007._

 

Hannibal Lecter, Victoria decided, was the most intelligent, charming, and erudite man she had ever met. She felt at ease with him, and she found that she could talk about almost anything with him. He didn't treat her like she was damaged or broken, but he honestly seemed to care for her. He seemed all too content to let things progress slowly and let her set the pace.

 

They'd been out together several times in the past two months: once he had driven to D.C. to attend the matinee performance of a Molière play with her and then have lunch at the wine bar down the street from where she lived; another time he had come to see the exhibit of Impressionist paintings at the art museum with her. She had been to his house for dinner many times, this time being a dinner party to which his friends and colleagues had been invited, and had even spent a few weekends with him. He was an excellent host, making sure that she was introduced to everyone—though she was sure they were aware of who she was just through recent news—and he spoke about the topic of her dissertation in such a way that people became interested in what she was writing.

 

“I'm writing about the fear of imprisonment present in Victorian gothic and sensation literature,” she told two of the other guests as Hannibal came to her side, handing her a glass of wine and placing his hand on the small of her back. “It's used in both _The Woman in White_ with the sane Laura Fairlie being committed to an asylum as the insane Anne Catherick and in _Jane Eyre_ with Mr. Rochester's first wife, Bertha, as the madwoman locked away in Thornfield's attic.” She sipped at her wine and the psychologist beside her nodded in understanding.

 

“It sounds very intriguing,” he remarked, “given some of your recent experiences, Victoria. I'd like to read it when it's finished. Have you read any of it, Hannibal?”

 

Victoria glanced over at Hannibal, who smiled at his colleague and replied, “Yes, I have read it so far. It is brilliant. Victoria has a very compelling argument. If I didn't know better, I would have thought that she'd had some kind of training in the fields of psychiatry or psychology.”

 

“Which I don't,” Victoria added honestly.

 

“But don't you remember your Rousseau, Victoria? Experience can be the best teacher. Your experieces may have taught you something that a professional such as myself or Dr. Erskine may have spent years studying,” Hannibal reminded her, and she heard Dr. Erskine laugh.

 

“If Hannibal thinks it's brilliant, then I'll have to read it when it's published,” he told Victoria, raising his glass to her.

 

“It won't be ready for awhile,” she said to Dr. Erskine. “I'm still doing a lot of the research for it. Hannibal has only been reading my notes and already thinks it's some great masterpiece.”

“Dr. Lecter is a very good judge of what's good work and what isn't,” the novelist—Mrs. Komeda—said to Victoria. “You should trust his opinion.”

 

“Now you're putting her on the spot,” Dr. Erskine chided Mrs. Komeda teasingly. 

 

Hannibal laughed, kissing Victoria on the temple. “Dr. Erskine, I'm afraid _I'm_ being put on the spot. Everyone places too much faith in what I think is _le bon go_ _û_ _t._ With Victoria's dissertation, though, I don't think I'd be giving a fair opinion. I would give a favorable critique of anything she wrote.”

 

She let him lead her to her seat at the dining room table, where the dishes he had prepared had been laid out. It was an impressive spread, one that, to her, was just as wonderful to look at as it would be to eat. Hannibal leaned over and whispered into her ear, “What are you thinking?”

 

“I'm thinking that this is all absolutely gorgeous,” she replied, turning to address him. He seemed touched at this sentiment. “But I also think you're very sneaky.”

 

“How so?” he asked her, seeming genuinely curious.

 

“You were indirectly quoting Madame de Staël,” she explained, “and I think I was the only one who picked up on it.”

 

“And this makes me sneaky?”

 

“Not in a bad way.” 

 

“Are you teasing me, Victoria?”

 

“Maybe.”

 

She glanced away from him to answer a question that someone else asked her, and that led to a conversation about her father's novels and what it had been like growing up in California. There was some talk about the wine country, and the semesters she spent abroad in Europe, and why she had chosen to go to grad school. His friends seemed to accept her, she realized, and it had been easy, almost as easy as the relationship with him. 

 

Almost as easy as falling for him.

 

******

 

“That was amazing,” Victoria stated as they sat in his kitchen after everyone had left the dinner party. “Dinner, the guests, the wine—everything. Everything was perfect.”

 

He poured himself some more wine, and he reached for her wine glass. “Would you like some more, or will you be driving home tonight?”

 

“I thought I would stay here, like we talked about, if you haven't changed your mind.” She bit her lip.

 

“I haven't changed my mind.” He refilled her glass. “The sheets in the guest room are clean. Where are your keys? I'll bring your bag in.” 

 

“Hannibal.” She called out his name as he was going into the living room, and he stopped in his tracks and looked at her expectantly.

 

“Yes, Victoria?”

 

“I won't need the guest room tonight. I—I want to sleep in your bed. With you, and...” Her voice trailed off as she saw the corners of his mouth lift into a smile. 

 

“Let me bring in your bag and you can tell me what else you would like to do with me in my bed,” he said to her, and she laughed and watched him turn on his heel to find her car keys.

 

******

 

“I don't understand what the big deal is. It's not like you were raped.”

 

That was what one of the responding officers had said to her when she had told him of how McCarren had touched her. 

 

“That's not the point,” she had said angrily. 

 

“Then what is the point?”

 

“I don't know!” she had exclaimed, her eyes filling with tears. “I don't know what the whole point has been to any of this! Why don't you go fucking ask _him_?”

 

Hannibal had been very understanding of it, and she wss sure that much of that came with his training as a psychiatrist. 

 

When she told him she didn't feel ready to have sex with him yet—as much as she had really wanted to—he had assured her that they would wait until she was ready. During those two weekends when she had driven up to Baltimore to attend an opera and later a charity dinner with him, he had allowed her use of his guest room. And that was when she had started to fall for him.  


******

 

He took her suitcase to his bedroom and then returned to the kitchen, coming to her side and taking her hands into his. “You were going to say what you wanted to do in my bed with me—aside from sleeping.”

 

Victoria laughed, standing up, conscious of how much taller he was when she wasn't wearing her heels. “I want to have sex with you, in your bed.”

 

He bent to kiss her, his hand wandering to her waist. “You have a very dirty mind. What do you think we ought to do about that?”

 

“Indulge it.”

 

He seemed to agree with this, and he followed her to his bedroom. 

 

She'd always thought he was an amazing kisser but he was amazing at everything else, too. He took his time with her, asking her more than once to tell him what she wanted him to do. He eagerly followed any directions she gave, and she was just as eager to please him. She liked how he felt on top of her, how she had to brush his hair out of his face when he kissed her before putting on the condom. He tugged on her hair when she came the second time, just so he could kiss her, and he found his release after that. He pulled away from her so that he could dispose of the condom, and once he had done that, he returned to her side. He ran his hand through her hair and stared down at her with amusement on his face.

 

“What is it?” she asked him, and he lie down beside her, pulling her to him.

 

“I was only thinking,” he answered, “of how beautiful you are, and how much better my bed looks with you in it. I should have you in it more often.” 

 

She brushed his cheek with tender fingers. “I think that's a wonderful idea,” she told him. 

 

******

 

_October, 2012._

 

That Saturday afternoon they went to a screening of _The Scarlet Empress,_ a favorite of Victoria's, at one of the independent movie houses in town. As she beside him, she felt him place his hand over hers companionably, almost proprietarily. These moments left a heaviness in her heart, for she could pretend, just for a bit, that she loved him and that he loved her, and that they were just a normal couple enjoying a nice Saturday afternoon together.

 

But nothing could be further from the truth.

 

******

 

Once, when she'd been tipsy from too much wine and he'd had a long day seeing patients, they'd sat on the large sofa in the living room listening to Chopin. She'd been curled against him,inhaling the smell of his cologne, listening to his heartbeat and breathing, reveling in the feel of the material of his shirt against her cheek. Sometimes, when the mood seized him, he would asl her to make up stories about the works of art in his home. Tonight he asked her to do so with the Ophelia photo.

She more or less retold the story of _Hamlet_ , only changing Ophelia's fate at the very end. When she had fallen into the river, a knight visiting from Lithuania, a good man who never would have broken her heart, pulled her from the river and took her to the nearest convent to be nursed back to health. He fell in love with her during this time, and she with him, and they were married in that very conv.ent by a passing priest. When she discovered that not only was her father dead, but her brother, too, and that everyone in Denmark thought she was dead as well, she returned to Lithuania with her new husband and became the chatelaine of a great estate and lived happily, her old life in Denmark now some distant dream.

 

“I like that story best, I think,” Hannibal murmured into her hair.

 

“Why?”

 

“Because,” he said, “there is a bit of truth to it. Isn't there, Ophelia?”

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Hannibal_ , but all original characters are mine. The rating has changed to M just to be safe.**

 

**This takes place before and during the series.**

 

The poem that inspired this is called _Persephone Lied_ , by an author called Spuffyduds, particularly this line:

 

“'Don’t eat the food of the dead, for it will trap you here.'  
And I said _give me the fucking fruit._ _'”_

 

_Playlist:_

 

 _Shalott_ _,_ Emilie Autumn

 

 _Stockholm Syndrome_ _,_ Muse

 

 _If There's a Rocket Tie Me to It_ _,_ Snow Patrol

 

 _Stay_ _,_ Rihanna

 

**Pretty Little Things**

 

**Chapter Five**

 

_January, 2007._

_  
_Hannibal enjoyed Victoria Landry just as he would savor his favorite dish.

 

She was a very intelligent young woman, a poetic soul who seemed to sometimes be deeply affected by the same things that riveted him—a certain pitch of music, the meaning behind a poem, the rare beauty of a brilliant painting. The more time he spent with her, the more he would learn about her, until he came to the conclusion that he found her fascinating and diverting. There was that sadness in her at not being able to live her life to the fullest because of the fear that had plagued her for so long, and now she was doing that, with him, he thought with a flicker of a smile on his face as he went through his appointment book for the day.

 

There were certain things he remembered about sleeping with her for the first time a few nights ago. Seeing here there, on his bed, her face flushed and her eyes trusting, open and ready to receive him. And her taste. His mouth watered at the very memory of it, as he had kissed his way down her body, and as he'd stopped. She'd looked at him perplexedly, almost pouting.

 

“What would you like me to do, Victoria?” The question, the question that made her eyes half close wantonly and a smile to curve her lips.

 

“I want you to eat me,” she told him, and he'd done as she requested, feeling very pleased at the sound of her soft moans of ecstasy.

 

Of course, the double meaning behind it was amusing in its way, but the idea of killing, butchering, cooking, and eating Victoria Landry—in the sense he was thinking of—was almost an abomination to him.

 

He knew that he wasn't capable of loving her.

 

What she did was fill that void within him. She relieved that dull ache of loneliness that he would feel sometimes, when he would look at the rest of the world and see that there was no one else like him. He wanted to keep her in his life, as much as he wanted to keep his collection of Sèvres porcelain or his surrealist paintings or his rare books or his expensive suits. He could find a place for her among all of these things, polish her and make her gleam like silver.

 

He could make her even more brilliant than she already was.

 

******

 

“Your psychiatrist.” Her mother's voice was sharp with irritation. “You've been seeing him for how long?”

 

“A little over a month.” Victoria could hear her mother exhale in exasperation. “You're the one who hired him, Mom. Because you were told that he was the best. And I only saw him twice outside of the hospital...”

 

“I'm surprised that it's not in the tabloids,” her mother remarked, and Victoria could hear one of her half-sisters ask her mother a question.

 

“Maybe because they don't care, Mom.” Victoria swiftly changed the subject. “Everyone is really excited about my dissertation. A lot of people want to read it when it's done.”

 

Her mother seemed to be listening, and Victoria could hear the change in Claire's tone. “I'm glad, Victoria. This is something you've always wanted. Your dad would be so proud of you.”

 

Victoria's eyes filled with tears at the mention of her father. “Yeah, Mom, I think he'd be really proud of me, too,” she said, and and quickly ended the phone conversation.

 

******

 

“I love your house,” Victoria told Hannibal as she sat down to dinner with him at his dining room table. He had made a cassoulet for her that evening after she'd mentioned to him earlier in the week how much she liked it. “Every time I come here I feel like I'm stepping into some secret place meant just for me, like in _The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe_. But I have to go back home eventually...” She shrugged, laughing at herself.

 

“Where do you intend on living after you've finished your dissertation?” Hannibal asked her, refilling her wine glass for her.

 

“I don't know,” she admitted. “At first I thought about going back home once it was done, working with the trust my dad had set up. But then...things happened. And then I met you.”

 

He reached over to take her hand. “I thought you were going to return to California,” he said honestly. “Tonight I was going to tell you that I want you to stay here.”

 

“Why?” she asked him, letting her fingers link with his.

 

He drew a breath, smiling silkily. “Because I love you, Victoria.”

 

******

 

_October, 2012._

 

“I'll be out of town for the next few days,” Hannibal told her as he came back to bed that night.

 

“Do I want to know where you're going?” she asked him, moving closer to him, draping her leg over his.

 

“Do you think I'm going to expect you to lie for me?”

 

“I don't know. Will you?”

 

He shook his head, tracing the line if her cheekbone with his index finger. “Not this time. I'm going to Minnesota to take a look at what the local police have on those disappearances the FBI is investigating and to offer my expertise. You've heard about them, haven't you...the disappearances?”

 

“In Minnesota? The eight girls?”

 

“That is the case.” He leaned over to kiss her, and she closed her eyes as his tongue slid smoothly into her mouth. She twined her arms around his neck and returned the kiss, tracing the edge of his bottom teeth with the tip of her tongue. She made a noise of disappointment as he pulled away, but she gasped in anticipation when she saw that he was slowly lifting the hem of her top. “If you would be so kind as to bring the mail in for me, Victoria, both here and at the office.”

 

“I will.” She reached over and felt that he was hard, and she could hear his sudden intake of breath at her touch.

 

“Do you know what you mean to me, Victoria?” he said softly, and she kissed him gently on the mouth as she slipped her hand into the waistband of his pajama pants and briefs, seeking him out, letting her fingers wander over him.

 

“Yes,” she replied. “I'm your pretty thing.”

 

******

 

She lied for him.

 

Some part of her deep down knew that it was wrong, that she should go to the police or the FBI and tell them all she knew, present the little flash drive that she kept in an undisclosed safety deposit box in an undisclosed bank to the authorities.  
  
But she didn't.

 

Hannibal had helped to rebuild her life after what McCarren had done to her, after those years he had taken from her. She was grateful to him for it. There were times when she still loved him despite who he was, and she knew that he would do anything for her, that all she had to do was ask. And in return, she kept his secrets, lied for him, played along with their great game of pretend so that no one would find out. She ate the food he prepared and didn't ask questions, she accompanied him to the places he went. He had offered his services on a pro bono to victims and and survivors of stalking, sexual assault, and abuse because of his association with her and the Landry trust, all in exchange for not divulging what he knew about the things she had done.

 

Their lives had become so intertwined that there was no way of going back.

 

******

 

That night— _that night_ —when he had fully brought her into his world, after all of it had happened, he had made her sit in the corner of the cellar of his old summer cottage on the Susquehanna while he had taken what cuts he'd wanted from the body.

 

She had tried to stop whimpering, but he had turned to her and commanded impatiently, “If you cannot stop crying, then take another Xanax. If you cannot stand looking at his face, then cover your eyes until I am done.”

 

She had squeezed her eyes shut and had shoved her forefingers into her ears while he had butchered the body. When he was finished, he'd wrapped the body neatly in the dropcloths he had spread on the floor and came to her side, gently placing his hand on her shoulder. She shrieked when she felt his hand there, and she thought that he would backhand her, but he didn't. He roughly took her hand and pulled her up. “You're going to help me carry the body upstairs and to the car. You're going to remain calm while we do this. Do you understand?”

 

She nodded dazedly, and she followed his instructions when it came to carrying the body upstairs and outside. It was so heavy, she thought absently as she'd continued up the stairs backwards.

 

He'd loaded the body into the trunk of his Lincoln, then ordered her back into the cottage.

 

She had gone upstairs to the loft bedroom, found her Xanax in the bathroom, took it, and fell asleep on the cool tile of the bathroom floor.

 

She wasn't sure of where exactly he had gone that night, but he was back by daybreak, rousing her from her drug-induced sleep. He kept his voice gentle as he helped her up and peeled the bloody shorts and t-shirt and underwear from her and turned on the shower. She stepped in, letting the warm water rinse the dried blood and gore from her body, and she'd been relieved when he stepped in behind her, closing the curtain behind him. She'd clung to him, burying her face into his shoulder and babbling out, “Hannibal, what did we just do? Oh, God, Hannibal, what if he isn't dead?”

 

He'd shushed her, almost cradling her in his arms, and he'd kissed her on the forehead. “He is dead, Victoria. He won't ever hurt you again. There's nothing to be frightened of anymore.”

 

“So is everything going to be all right?”

 

“Of course, my dear. Everything will be all right from now on. Now sit down so I can wash you.”

 

He'd been gentle with her, getting all of the carnage off of her, and afterward he cleaned himself off. He had allowed her to get ready for bed while he'd gone downstairs to get some brandy for them both, and she drank two snifters before lying down beside him drowsily again. “How are you feeling?” he asked her as he leaned over her.

 

“Better.” She reached out to place her hand on his cheek. “I love you, Hannibal.”

 

His lips twitched and he kissed her. “Go to sleep. I'll be back up soon.”

 

She had gone back to sleep.

 

During the course of the morning, he'd powerwashed the cellar floor with bleach in the water, making sure to cover up any trace of the crime they had committed. He scrubbed out the bathtub and scoured the bathroom tile with bleach water. He took the dropcloths and their bloodied clothes outside and burned them.

 

She was up by the early afternoon and he made her pancakes and bacon—real bacon, this time, though his palate had been craving the flesh he had just taken—and he'd told her that he was proud of her, that everything was going to be all right now, that he would never abandon her.

 

She'd believed every word of it.

 

When he had made love to her that night she had stilled him.

 

“What is that matter?” he asked her as her fingers wrapped around his corded forearms.

 

“Tell me you love me,” she'd blurted. “Tell me you love me even though I know that you don't...that you can't...”

 

“Victoria.” He kissed her, moving within her again. “I love you. Very, very much...”

 

When they got home from their so-called vacation, he took his car in to be professionally cleaned and detailed.

 

He traded it in a few months later for a black, shiny Lexus. And it seemed that no one was aware of what exactly he had used the trunk of that Lincoln for.

 

******

 

She went to the office that Tuesday to pick up the mail, and she jumped when she heard the desperate knocking on the door.

 

She unlocked the door and opened it to see a pudgy, dark-haired man standing on the doorstep. He seemed agitated, but now he seemed disappointed that it was she who answered the door and not Hannibal.

 

“Is Dr. Lecter in?” the man ventured, and his face fell when she shook her head.

 

“He's out of town on business until tomorrow,” Victoria replied. “Have you tried calling his answering service?”

 

He nodded. “But he hasn't returned my calls yet.”

 

“He's probably really busy, unfortunately,” Victoria said, trying to keep her voice as soothing as possible. “What's your name? I can let him know you need to speak with him urgently.”

“Franklyn Froideveaux,” he replied, and Victoria wrote the name down on one of the unopened envelopes. “Wait...aren't you...”

 

“Aren't I what?” she asked him.

 

“You're the Ophelia in the painting he has in his office,” Franklyn concluded.

 

“Yes, he drew that,” she said carefully.

 

"But how does he know you?”

Victoria found herself irritated with this patient suddenly. “I'm his girlfriend,” she replied coolly, “and no worries, I'll tell him you need to talk to him.” And she nearly slammed the door in Franklyn's face.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Hannibal,_ but Victoria Landry and all original characters are mine.**

 

**This takes place before and during the series. Note that time jumps are indicated, and everything will come together, eventually. And we get Alana Bloom's perspective on Victoria and Hannibal and what's to come with Will.**

 

Playlist:

 

 _What the Water Gave Me_ , Florence + the Machine

 

 _La Vie en Rose,_ Edith Piaf

 

 _Who'd Have Known_ , Lily Allen

 

 _Better,_ Plumb

 

**Pretty Little Things**

 

**Chapter Six**

 

Dr. Alana Bloom had first met Victoria Landry in late 2008 at one of Hannibal Lecter's dinner parties. Victoria was one of those topics that was whispered about, but never really discussed in Dr. Lecter's presence unless he initiated it. Alana knew that she was the daughter of late novelist Gus Landry—who was regarded as some mixture of Hemingway, Faulkner, and Elmore Leonard—and washed-up actress Claire Sawyer, who had starred in some mediocre films during the late seventies and early eighties but who had traded acting for motherhood. Victoria had chosen to go to college and go into academia, living a relatively normal life until a home invasion had occurred in her apartment a few years ago, though the intruder had been taken to the hospital with two bullet wounds in his torso courtesy of his intended victim. Victoria had been spirited away to a local mental hospital, and her lawyer had called in Dr. Lecter to do a psychiatric evaluation on her in case charges were filed. She must have left quite an impression on him, because by that fall, they were officially an item.

 

There had really been nothing to say about Victoria after that, except that, after finishing her master's degree in English literature, she had settled in Baltimore and worked with the charity that her father had had set up before his death, the Landry trust. Most of the work the charity did was with local organizations that concentrated on helping victims and survivors of stalking, domestic violence, sexual assault, and child abuse. Victoria made no secret of being a survivor of both stalking and sexual assault, and her focus was on victim advocacy and aftercare. This was where Dr. Lecter came into the picture, offering his services on a pro bono basis for those who couldn't afford it and who were referred to him through the programs affiliated with the Landry trust. Victoria herself refused appearances on the twenty-four-hour news networks, remembering, no doubt, how they had reported on every detail of her case, and she was very selective about any interviews she gave.

 

Some of the other department members said she was a snobby West Coast bitch who thought she was better than everyone else.

 

Dr. Richard Erskine—with whom Alana had worked on a very delicate case and who spoke highly of Dr. Lecter—simply said that Victoria was rather shy and introverted, but in the right circumstances, she was really quite friendly.

 

When Alana had arrived at the dinner party, she could see that Dr. Erskine had already gravitated toward Victoria, with whom he was engaged in a very animated conversation. He motioned for Alana to approach. He introduced Victoria, who looked very nice clad in a long-sleeved black dress with a ribbed skirt. She reminded Alana of the blondes in Hitchcock movies, only her hair had a more golden cast to it, and when introduced to Alana, she smiled and shook hands. “It's so nice to finally meet you,” she said. “Hannibal has told me so much about you.”

 

Victoria was actually very nice. She talked about France, where she and Hannibal had gone this past summer, and how she'd insisted they go to Malmaison to see the gardens, and how Hannibal had obliged her. “We rented an apartment in Montmartre for three weeks and just stayed in the Paris area. Hannibal spent a lot of time there when he was young, so I put my complete trust in him.”

 

“Have you been to Paris before?” Alana asked, sipping at the white wine Hannibal handed her as he approached the group.

 

“Twice. Once when I was twelve—Dad wanted me to see Omaha Beach because my grandpa was involved in the landing—and then once when I spent a semester abroad in Angers.” She stopped talking, and then turned to Alana. “Have you ever been to Paris?”

 

“I went a few years ago, but I didn't spend the time that you and Hannibal did there. What _did_ you take her to see, other than Malmaison?” Alana said to Hannibal as he handed her a glass of white wine. Victoria chuckled at the mention of Malmaison.

 

Hannibal smiled down at Victoria, and he seemed to like the attention he was getting. “We went to Notre-Dame and Sacre-Coeur, and of course the Palais Garnier. Victoria mentioned Malmaison, and we _also_ had to see Versailles and Fontainebleau. _Someone_ wanted to see where Dumas père and fils were buried...and of course Marie Duplessis is buried near Dumas fils.”

 

“She was the real _Camille_ ,” Victoria interjected.

 

“Don't forget that she was also the inspiration for Violetta Valéry in _La Traviata_ ,” Hannibal reminded her.

 

“Which was based on _Camille_.”

 

“I may as well concede my argument at this point,” Hannibal said self-deprecatingly, and Victoria laughed. Alana found herself laughing, too.

 

Later, when they were alone in the kitchen after the dinner was over and Victoria was talking with some of the other guests in the living room, Hannibal poured Alana some microbrewed beer and set to work cleaning off the plates.

 

“I like her,” Alana said as she helped to load the flatware into the dishwasher. “She's very nice...and she seems very enamored of you.”

 

“She _is_ very enamored of me,” Hannibal replied, smiling at Alana. “And I'm very enamored of her.”

 

“I can see that,” Alana said. “It's good you're with someone like her, Hannibal.”

 

And it _was_ good that he was with someone like Victoria, who didn't work in psychiatry as he did, who helped keep him to keep his professional and personal lives separate. Who, despite her veneer of being a strong survivor who was willing to fight tooth and nail for other survivors, was still fragile somehow, who needed someone like Hannibal to support her when she couldn't pretend to be strong.

 

He would also be good for Will Graham, Alana decided, because he could provide that support that Will needed, could teach Will some new and better coping methods for the things that he saw. Not that Alana couldn't, but she was also Will's friend, and venturing into the odd territory of friend and psychiatrist intimidated her with Will. There was too much to lose, she reasoned. Will could very easily reject what help she would have to offer and end their friendship altogether, and that was something Alana couldn't bear.

 

She felt a little annoyed when she saw Victoria's blue Ford Fusion in Hannibal's driveway, but then she remembered that Hannibal had no doubt asked her to bring in his mail and to make sure that everything was taken care of around the house while he was in Minnesota. Hannibal answered the door and led her to the kitchen, where it looked like he was preparing some pork loin and where Victoria was doing some work on her laptop at her normal spot on the barstool at the counter. Alana had come upon them several times like this, Hannibal cooking and Victoria either working or sitting there talking with him and drinking a glass of wine. It seemed to be an agreement between the two: Hannibal did the cooking, and Victoria helped with the chopping of vegetables or fruit and the cleanup. Victoria had admitted once that her culinary skills were pathetic in comparison to Hannibal's, though she could make some good dips, salads, and crock-pot meals. But Alana had yet to see that.

 

“Hi, Alana,” Victoria said, turning on the barstool to face her. She'd been drinking, Alana could see from the red wine stain on her red lips and the flush in her cheeks. Glass of wine number two, maybe?

 

“Hello, Victoria.” Alana kept her greeting as formal as possible, and Victoria seemed to take a hint and closed her laptop, picking it up and balancing her glass of wine in the other hand.

 

“So is this going to be a conversation between two colleagues?” Victoria asked Hannibal.

 

He glanced up from the food to Alana, and he answered, “Yes, it would be better if you left while we spoke, Victoria.”

 

“Understood.” She left the room, and Alana watched her go.

 

“I didn't think she would be here. She's usually not during the week,” Alana began as she took Victoria's spot on the stool.

 

Hannibal put the pork loins into the oven, then quickly scrubbed his hands and dried them. He went to pour Alana a pilsner glass full of some microbrew lager, which she took gratefully. “She doesn't always sleep well at home on certain nights. Certain anniversaries,” he said, very quietly. “It was easier for her to come here today. I would have gone to her apartment—and I normally do if it's during the week—but since I've just gotten back from Minnesota I told her to pack a bag and come here for the night.”

 

“About that,” Alana said. “What exactly did you gather from it?”

 

He placed the knives he had been using in the sink, then set to work rinsing the berries for the pound cake that lay cooling on one of the other counters.

 

“You mean,” he said, “how will it affect our good Will?”

 

******

 

It had been eleven years ago today that she had come home to the apartment she shared with some of her sorority sisters, that she'd found the odd package set aside for her on the kitchen table.

 

She had opened it to find the Barbie doll in it, blond hair cut in the style she wore at the time, naked, cut open with a utility knife in some places—some very intimate places that had been painted red to make it look like the doll was bleeding from the imaginary wounds. And then finally, the small knife buried right between the doll's breasts...

 

“What the hell is that?” her roommate had demanded. “And the hair...the hair is all sticky...Oh, that is fucking sick if it is what I think it is...”

 

And then the calls, the voicemails of _him_ breathing heavily, and she'd known exactly what he had been doing when he had called her.

 

She had been doing better with it, but there had been something about Mason Verger that made her flesh crawl.

 

He'd come to the office on behalf of his mother's charity, and he was neat and slick in his black suit and blue-and-charcoal tie. He had a drawl that reminded Victoria of the Old South, but something about him reminded her of a cold and slimy eel.

 

She had been able to keep her cool during his explanation of what exactly his family's charity did and why they were so anxious to get the Landry name on board with it. “You bring in all of the donors from the entertainment industry,” he drawled, “and of course the Midwesterners who think your father was brilliant.” Here his tone was patronizing as his eyes wandered around her office, at the pictures of her and Hannibal and of her and her half-sisters and her mother and stepfather.

 

“Well, he was pretty brilliant,” Victoria said defensively.

 

“And those are your sisters?” He leaned over to take a look at the framed pictures of the three younger ones in their dance costumes—Ashlynne, who was sixteen, Breanna, who was fourteen, and Sienna, who was ten. His eyes seemed to linger too much over Sienna.

 

Victoria didn't like that.

 

“We were thinking of a check for ten thousand dollars for your organization at first,” she told him, trying to remain as calm as possible. “Then, once we tour the camp during the summer and see what we could help out with, we would donate the money appropriately. I hope that's all right with you.”

 

“Of course it is, Ms. Landry.” He emphasized the _Ms._ almost facetiously. “You'll be in touch with the date of the tour, of course?”

 

“Of course,” Victoria said, and once he had left her office, she still hadn't been able to shake the sick feeling she got from him.

 

Hannibal called her that afternoon to let her know that he had returned from Minnesota, and he thanked her for bringing the mail in for him.

 

And that was when she had started crying, and the story about Mason Verger had come out.

 

“I don't know what it is about him, but he just makes me feel so dirty...and the way he was looking at Sienna's picture...Hannibal...”

 

“Did he do something that was triggering for you, Victoria?” Hannibal asked her very gently. He was using his psychiatrist tone with her, and that meant that yes, he was rather irritated with her whining, but still, he would make it all right.

 

“Yes,” she gulped through her tears.

 

“Pack your things and come over here tonight. I will cook for you, and you can sleep in tomorrow and work from here. I have something here to help you sleep. Would you like that?”

 

“Yes.” She _would_ like that, to sleep long and deeply in his warm bed with silk sheets that smelled of him, and to hear him come into the bedroom and get ready for bed and then climb in beside her, and he would be there and it would be all right...

 

She left work early, told her assistant to forward all calls to her voicemail and that she would be working from home tomorrow, and went home to pack her things. Once she got to Hannibal's she took a Xanax, and he handed her a glass of wine. He made pork loin and garlic mashed red-skin potatoes for her and a salad of spring mix and red bell peppers with the dressing he liked, and he made a pound cake that would be topped with berries and whipped cream for dessert for her.

 

Then Alana Bloom arrived.

 

Victoria excused herself politely, though she was sure that with the second glass of wine and the Xanax she seemed drunk to Alana. Let Hannibal explain it, she thought, even though she really _did_ like Alana the best out of most of his friends.

 

Alana didn't stay for dinner, though it was delicious as always, though she did ask, “Who's Will Graham?”

 

“Were you listening in on us?” Hannibal asked her, his face growing stern. “That would have been a very naughty thing for you to do, Victoria.”

 

“No, I didn't spy on you. I just heard Will Graham when I was on my way to the bathroom. I didn't hear anything else.”

 

He spooned another helping of potatoes onto her plate and sighed audibly. “So you heard nothing?”

 

“Nothing of consequence.”

 

“He's just a colleague of Alana's, Victoria. A profiler.”

 

“The profiler you profiled?”

 

“The very same.”

 

“I think it's very sweet of you to help him if he needs it,” she pronounced, and he let the subject drop after that.

 

One she was ready for bed he gave her a sleeping pill and kissed her good night and told her that he would be up in a few hours. Though she felt him lie down beside her some time later, she slept well the rest of the night, and there were no dreams of bloody pomegranates or mutilated dolls or screaming men.


	7. Chapter 7

**I don't own _Hannibal,_ but all original characters are mine.**

Playlist:

 _Les Fleurs du Mal,_ Sarah Brightman

 _Foolish_ , Ashanti

 _Losing Sleep_ , Charlotte Sometimes

 _Animal_ , Neon Trees

**Pretty Little Things**

**Chapter Seven**

In the morning he made her breakfast, his infamous protein scramble, but he'd added red bell pepper. "Since you love red bell pepper, Victoria," he said as he brought it to her in bed.

She took her Wellbutrin, her Synthroid, the hit off of her Symbacort inhaler, and then she went to rinse her mouth. "You're too sweet, Hannibal," she said to him as she sat down on the bed. He smiled down at her and placed his hand on her shoulder.

"Eat your breakfast," he told her. "And look—I've brought you your yerba mate. The chocolate flavored."

 _I do love you, Hannibal._   _Today._

"I'm going to Minnesota again today," he said as she began to eat. "Will Graham is there, because there has been another murder...another girl, dead. I can't help but think of  _you_."

She tilted her head, sipping at her yerba mate. "I'm too old to be a girl."

"There are times when you'll always be a girl to me. Such as when I bring you breakfast in bed in the morning, or when you need me at your side so you can sleep at night."

"I don't always need you, Hannibal."

"But right now you do." He rose from the bed, reaching for the jacket he had chosen for the day to complete his suit. "Tell me you love me, Victoria."

"I love you, Hannibal."

"You will have something pretty soon." He turned to her, buttoning his jacket. "Won't it be nice—pretty things for my pretty thing?"

"I'm not a thing, Hannibal."

"Of course not." He came over to kiss her. "But I love you...and you've made it clear you're mine. It's a term of endearment, Victoria."

"I know." His kiss on her cheek was soft yet spoke of a promise of something more.

"I'll call you when I get there, and before I come home."

She took his hand, pressed it against her cheek.

_Hannibal, the white knight. Hannibal, the rescuer. And the first time we fucked, it was in a bed of roses and the thorns dug into my sides and held me down while you made me yours..._

"Dearest Victoria, how I love you."

_No, you don't, you don't, you don't._

"Work from here the rest of the week, if you wish. I want you to feel safe, Victoria."

"I always feel safe with you, Hannibal. Even without you, in this house."

                                                                                    ******

Miriam Lass's remains were in the deep freezer in the basement.

Along with other people's.

She had helped move Miriam Lass into the basement.

Hannibal had simply told her to take another Xanax. And then he had given her wine, and once she was relatively sober, he had fucked her silly, asking her each time whether or not she wanted him to do something and responding to her whispered  _yes._  And told her he loved her.

"No, you don't," she said miserably as he pulled out of her. His face clouded then, and she knew that underneath that veneer of composure that he could very well be seething at her.

"Believe what you'd like, then," he had gritted out, going into the bathroom to dispose of the condom. "But remember everything that I have done for you. How can you think of those things and say I don't love you?"

When he had returned to her side, she had rolled over so she didn't have to look at him. He reached for her, but she batted his hand away. "You don't know how much I love  _you_ , Hannibal," she had said, and then she had begun to cry.

                                                                                ******

"I want a baby someday." She had been drunk when they had made love on her thirty-first birthday in 2012, and there had been no talk of marriage, but she still wanted a baby.

"A boy or a girl?"

"A girl, but not a Michelle. A Michaela, and I would call her Mischa. And she would be yours."

"You think I would give you a baby?"

"You said once you'd give me anything, Hannibal."

"I did say that." He had bent to kiss her. "I love you, Victoria. If you want a baby, I will give you a baby."

"Oh, Hannibal!" She threw her arms around him, kissing him on his shoulder.

"But I consider myself to be an honorable man, Victoria. If you want a baby— _my_  baby—you'll have to marry me. I won't allow you to be an unwed mother."

She tried to hide her laugh, but it came out as a snort. " _If_ I get pregnant, then we'll get married. And I'll move in.  And we'll be happy."

"That is what I want, Victoria. I want you to be happy."

"I want to make you happy, Hannibal. We'll have a girl, another Mischa. You'll love her so much. And between you, my mom, and my sisters, think of how spoiled she'll be."

"She will be beautiful," he said, his clever fingers dancing on the small of her back. "I've never thought of wanting a family, Victoria, but when I think of it with you, it is something I want."

She kissed him then, running her hands through his light brown hair. "I love you, Hannibal."

                                                                     ******

She did love Hannibal. She did.

They had found the killer, the Minnesota Shrike, as he had been in the process of killing his family, and Will Graham—the one with so much empathy, the profiler Hannibal had profiled—had killed Garrett Jacob Hobbs as he had been in the process of slitting his daughter's throat. But it had been Hannibal who had saved the girl.

Abigail Hobbs was taken to the local hospital and stabilized, and then arrangements had been made to bring her to a small private hospital in Baltimore.

When Hannibal called Victoria, he sounded exhausted. He told her where he was, and very softly he murmured, "Come to me, Victoria."

How could she refuse?

                                                                                    ******

She went to him, bringing him a fresh set of clothes.

He was asleep at the girl's side.

There was the other man, scruffy, brown-haired, bespectacled.

"Who are you?" he asked her.

"Victoria Landry."

"Oh, Dr. Lecter mentioned you." He held out his hand, awkwardly. "I'm Will Graham. You're Dr. Lecter's...partner?"

The choice of words was careful. She tilted her head, but took his hand. "Girlfriend may be more appropriate," he amended.

"Partner. In the romantic sense," she said, the corners of her lips curving upwards.

"Okay, then." He smiled a bit. "You know, he saved her life."

Victoria cast a lingering glance at Hannibal. "No, I didn't."

"He never let go of her hand."

Will Graham lapsed into silence, then left the room as Victoria stepped toward Hannibal to wake him.

                                                                               ******

"He's dangerous.  _This_ is dangerous, Hannibal."

He emerged from the bathroom with a quizzical expression on his face. "Why do you say that?"

"They'll find out. Will Graham-do you think he's stupid? Hannibal,  _he will find out_." Victoria crossed her arms under her breasts as she watched him getting ready for bed. He seemed perfectly composed, and he kissed her on the cheek as he passed her.

"It's better to play the game, Victoria, and to pretend to be on the side of the law. With the Landry trust you do the same thing, don't you? Fighting for victims of abuse and sexual assault by day, keeping my secrets by night?" He patted the pillow on her side of the bed. "Come to bed. I've missed you."

She approached the bed and lie down beside him. She felt him draw her close, and all he did was kiss the back of her neck. "I'm only asking you to be more careful," she said quietly.

"I know you are."

"It doesn't bother me, Hannibal." She closed her eyes as the pads of his fingers grazed over her neck, as his fingers settled over her voicebox and his thumb anchored itelf on the side. "Don't touch me like that," she spat out, wriggling from his touch. "Don't touch me on the neck like that!"

"Why not?" he asked her, keeping his voice soft.

"Because that was what  _he_  did...Hannibal, don't  _ever_  touch me like that."

"Does it bother you to have killed him, Victoria?"

She thought about that night, the gore, the blood, the death, and how Hannibal had been so tender with her the next day, and how he had fixed everything and made it all go away, so that now she was free...

"No," she said calmly, and then she turned to him and put her arms around him, burying her face into his neck. "Hannibal, I love you so much...If only you knew..."

"I do know, Victoria. I do know how much you love me." He kissed her on the forehead.

"That's why you need to be more careful. I don't want to lose this. I don't want to lose  _you_."

"I will be very careful. They won't discover anything," he soothed.

He held her until she fell asleep.

                                                                             ******

She worked from his study the next day, holding a few conference calls with some of the charities that the trust worked with, discussing funding and where the trust could help make up for some of the shortfall.

It was a slip of the tongue to ask the head of one of the charities—the Ophelia Project—what she might know about Mason Verger. Teri Slatski merely said, very professionally, "Ms. Landry, I don't discuss our clients' cases. Not unless they would want to discuss these things with you on their own. You do understand, don't you?"

And she understood.

She would have to go about it in a different way.

                                                                             ******                                                        

"I want to see a therapist."

Hannibal was quiet as he added fresh sage to the mushrooms he was sauteing. "Do you want me to speak with Dr. du Maurier? We can call her in the morning and make an appointment for you."

"No, thank you, Hannibal." She poured him some more wine, then raised herself on the balls of her feet so that she could kiss his cheek. "I was referred to someone who specializes in treatment of survivors of sexual assault who have some lingering PTSD."

"This is nothing I can help you with?" he said, turning to her.

"Hannibal, there's some stuff I have to handle on my own." She sucked in her breath. "You've been so wonderful to me—and I'm so grateful for it—but you can't do it all. There are going to be some things that I can talk to you about as my significant other, but not as my psychiatrist."

"Then allow both of us to help you. Whatever reinforcement Dr. du Maurier thinks you need, I can provide." He turned his attention back to his cooking, and Victoria wandered into her living room. She stopped at the stereo, flicking through the CDs in the case on the entertainment center until she found the one she wanted.

"Some Edith Piaf?" she called, and she heard him reply that he would like that for music. She returned to the kitchen, her anxiety lessened by the familiarity of the first song.

"Did you hear what I said, Victoria?" Hannibal asked her as she took two plates out of the kitchen cupboard. She nodded. "And what do you have to say about it?" he prompted.

She pursed her lips, pouring herself some more wine before meeting his gaze levelly. "What if I want to talk to Alana Bloom? Her specialty is in aftercare for victims and survivors of trauma."

"You know her too well. That's not an option that would be best for you." His voice was firm. "Dr. du Maurier  _doesn't_  know you, and in that respect she'll be better able to help you. You could have your own sessions with her, and we could even have sessions with her together from time to time." He removed the chicken au champagne from the oven and plated it. "I am very concerned about you, Victoria."

"Why are you so concerned?" she asked him, turning her attention to tossing the salad to make sure that the dressing was mixed in evenly. "You touched me and I told you I didn't like how you were touching me. End of story."

"But will the time come when you won't want me to touch you at all, Victoria?" he said quietly.

"That's why I want to get help. I want to deal with this."

"And I want to help you to deal with it." He brought the plates to the table, then pulled out a chair for her. Once she had sat down, he pushed the chair in for her. He bent down and whispered into her ear, "Do you trust me, Victoria?"

"Yes," she replied, and she briefly felt his lips on the side of her neck. She didn't shrink from him this time.

But last night, after she had warned him about getting too close to the FBI, about inserting himself into the investigations of crimes and trying to pick apart the inner workings of Will Graham's mind, had he been irritated with her? Had he thought of killing her when he had caressed her neck like that, and had he thought better of it because he  _knew_ that he would be the first suspect if she ever came up dead or missing?

"Would you ever kill me, Hannibal?" she said as he took it upon himself to put more salad on her plate.

He stopped, and he looked up at her suddenly as though she had surprised him with her question. "Why would you say that, Victoria?"

"Because I still wonder sometimes." She licked her lips. "Like after last night."

His face grew grim, and she saw the muscle in his jaw flex. "I would never kill you, Victoria. You're much too precious to me. Surely you know that by now." He glanced down at the plate for a moment, then back up at her. "You said you trusted me, Victoria."

"I did," she agreed. "I still do...trust you, that is."

"Then trust me when I say I would never kill you, no matter how maddening you might be sometimes." He sounded sincere, and perhaps he was.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Hannibal_ , but all original characters are mine.**

**Author's Note: Please note that "time jumps" are indicated. This story flashes back and forth between past and present, yet there is some continuity in the narration of past events. Eventually both plots will join together. And I picture Natalie Dormer as Victoria.**

**I just hope that I got _some_  of Hannibal's character right.**

Playlist:

 _La Luna,_  Sarah Brightman

 _I Don't Wanna Go_ , Lana del Rey

 _Mad Girl,_ Emilie Autumn

 _When You Were Young,_  The Killers

**Pretty Little Things**

**Chapter Eight**

_November, 2007._

She moved to Baltimore when it got to be too much. She went back to teaching at a small private school in the city.

Somehow the editor of the failing tabloid paper  _The Tattler_  had been able to finagle an interview with Robert McCarren, all so he could tell "his side of the story." When she got wind of this, Victoria grew furious and immediately called her attorney in California. Lou had looked into it, but advised her that they could threaten a lawsuit if the piece was published and contained any falsehoods. "Which it very well might," he amended. "I'll have a talk with their attorney and let them know what's what."

She had been thinking of moving to Baltimore for awhile, but she became dead set on it when the local reporter tried to corner her in front of the school.

"I don't have any comments on it," Victoria said composedly as she slung her laptop bag over her shoulder. "I'm just trying to move on with my life. If you have any more questions, please talk to my lawyer."

 _The Tattler_  didn't go through with the interview. A few months later, it cashed its chips in and closed up shop, and an ambitious young reporter by the name of Freddie Lounds was out of a job.

* * *

"I want to show you something," Hannibal said earnestly, watching as she removed her heeled boots, which were wet from the snow. He waited for her to follow him into the hallway by the kitchen, and she gasped when she saw it.

A copy of the promotional poster from her freshman year in college when she had posed as Ophelia for the Shakespeare festival. He had found it. "How did you find it?" she asked him, and he smiled elusively.

"A former member of the theater department at your university had it up for sale on Ebay, and of course I had to purchase it." He kissed the top of her head, placing his hand on the small of her back. "Do you like it there, or should I hang it elsewhere?"

"It looks fine there," she mustered, moving closer to him. "But why that picture?"

He smiled mysteriously, and a light shone in his eyes. "Because it belongs here in this house, just as you do," was all he said.

* * *

Hannibal Lecter had grown attached to Victoria Landry. But it wasn't love. Of course, he  _told_  her he loved her. To be honest, he found her to be very beguiling, and he was very flattered by her feelings for him, but he couldn't return them, for he was incapable of such a feeling.

What she provided was relief from the ennui.

Of course there were the other things: companionship, sex (which yes, he found to be  _quite_  enjoyable with her), the same adoration for the beautiful things that the human mind could create.

She was also vulnerable. Malleable. He used both the anxiety and the bits of post-traumatic stress to his benefit. He became the strong, reassuring man she needed and helped her to rebuild her life and live it the way she wanted to...or so she thought.

In truth, by being what she needed, he was able to make her into what he needed...and wanted.

Quid pro quo, indeed.

* * *

"You remind me of that Sèvres porcelain," he said very quietly as she stopped to examine some of the pieces that had been brought in with the touring exhibit at the art museum. Her lips curved upward into a smile.

"Oh?" She turned to him, her blue eyes alight with mischief. "How am I like that Sèvres porcelain?"

He allowed a half-smile to cross his lips, and he turned to take a closer look at the tea set in the display case in front of them. "You are beautiful...and delicate. You must be handled carefully." When he saw her eyes narrow a bit, he amended, "Or so it would seem."

She shook her head, grinning. "You're flattering me."

"You should take it as a compliment, Victoria."

She moved on to the next part of the exhibit. "Don't worry, Hannibal. I  _do_  take it as a compliment."

* * *

His favorite color on her was blue, particularly a darker blue. Tonight, she wore a fitted midnight blue dress to the opera, setting it off with the round diamond earrings and pendant he had given her for her birthday. When he glanced at her, he saw how riveted she was by the entire performance, how she never took her eyes from the stage in front of them.

He didn't know why, but he was reminded of Byron.  _She walks in beauty like the night,/Of cloudless climes and starry skies;/And all that's best of dark and bright/Meet in her aspect and her eyes._

When he whispered it into her ear on the way out to the car, she took his hand and laughed, leaning her head on his shoulder. "When I was in college at University of California, a T.A. in the English department tried that on me. It didn't work."

"What did you say to him?"

"I laughed at him. Not in the way I laughed when  _you_ said it, because when  _you_ said it reminded me of when  _he_ said it."

"But when I say it, does it work in the way that this T.A. wanted it to for himself?"

"You could be reading the ingredients off of a cereal box and I would still be hot for you,."

The lines from the Byron poem must have helped, though, because by the end of the night, she was underneath him in his bed.

"You made me think of something," she said, her voice husky with desire for him.

"What did I make you think of?" he asked her as she slowly unbuttoned his dress shirt.

"Another poem.  _I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed/And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane./(I think I made you up inside my head)._ " She sat up halfway so that she could remove his shirt. He let her slip it from his shoulders, but he took it off himself, folding it up and putting it on the bedside table. She pulled him down to her, sighing in contentment at the feel of his bare skin against hers. "That was by Sylvia Plath."

"Why do I make you think of that?" he asked her, cupping her breast in his hand.

"Because you're too good to be true. You're all of these wonderful things—everything I have ever wanted in a man—and sometimes it feels like it's a dream. Sometimes I think I'll wake up and none of this will have ever been real."

"Your old fears are taking hold of you," he murmured, "and there's nothing to be frightened of, Victoria. All of this is real, and I'm touched that you think that I encompass all of the wonderful things you've ever wanted in a man. But I can't be perfect..."

"I'd never expect you to be," she answered, reaching down to undo his trousers. First those, and his briefs and her panties. "There," she said, stroking his erection. " _That_ was what I wanted to see. Will you roll over onto your back?"

He obliged, and she straddled him and kissed her way down his chest. "May I?" she asked mischievously, her fingers grazing his cock.

"Of course you may," he replied, smiling. She took him into her mouth and he let her pleasure him for some moments, but once he had had enough he reached down and touched her shoulder. "As much as I enjoy  _this_ ," he said meaningfully, "I want to be inside of you. Unless you'd like to do something else..."

She edged up the bed, kissing him, and some of his taste lingered on her tongue. "I want you inside of me, too," she said. Once she had guided him inside of her, he took hold of her hips so that he might set the pace. She made a sound that was something in between a sob and a laugh when he told her he loved her, even though he didn't mean one word of it.

* * *

_December, 2007._

The Hallorans came to Baltimore for Christmas. Victoria allowed them use of her apartment for the week while she stayed with Hannibal.

He was very careful to make sure that he had enough meat for the week, and he made sure to keep the door to the deep freezer downstairs locked so that no curious little girls would discover anything about what could be termed his extracurricular activities.

It was easy to charm the Hallorans. Claire Sawyer-Halloran was thrilled by his cooking, and Stuart Halloran was easily thrilled by Hannibal's taste in wine and beer and the fact that Hannibal bottled and barreled many of the potables himself. Of course there were the girls, the products of Claire's desire to start another family at almost forty. Victoria adored her half-sisters, whom she called her sisters without a thought. He watched from his kitchen window as they played in the dusting of snow in the small backyard of the house one afternoon, and Victoria seemed to shed any inhibitions that she might have with anyone, even him.

"You love your sisters," he observed as they were getting ready for bed on Christmas Eve. She wiped at her face with the witch hazel-soaked cotton ball.

"I've always loved them. Even when I didn't love my mom or my stepdad—because there were times when I didn't—I always loved my sisters. I would do anything for them."

"Would you do anything for me, Victoria?" he persisted as he reached for his dental floss.

She chuckled. "It would depend on what you asked, Hannibal." She threw the used cotton ball away.

"Breanna looks like you, in the face. With brown hair, of course."

"She does."

"Do you want children?"

"Do  _you_?" She came to his side, resting her cheek against his shoulder. "I could just not take my Ortho Tri-Cyclen for the next few months...just to see what happens. Have you thought about it—marriage and all of that?"

"I haven't thought much of it until very recently."

"You'd be a good father. But I'm not ready yet."

"You're younger than I am, Victoria. You have a right to say when you're ready...if and when you are."

"Thank goodness. My mom has been running her mouth."

"Should I cut out her tongue?"

She shook her head. "Never, Hannibal. Just fuck me silly tonight, and I'll be happy."

"It has never taken much effort on my part to make you happy."

"Which is why I love you. Because you make me happy."

* * *

_November, 2012._

Victoria met Alana at the hospital where Abigail Hobbs was being treated. The meeting had been spontaneous; Alana had called Victoria that morning to at the offices of the Landry trust and had asked her to come to the hospital that afternoon. Victoria's dress was more business casual today: a pair of charcoal gray pants and a black v-neck sweater that, with the small silver hoop earrings, caught the coolness of her coloring. No business suit, no polish, no clever little disguises.

"So you're saying no one has come forward to act in the girl's best interests?" Victoria said after Alana had explained her concerns. "No grandparents, no aunts and uncles?"

"No one but Will, Hannibal, and myself." Alana unbuttoned her coat as they stepped into the elevator. "Jack Crawford thinks she may have been an active participant in the murders."

Victoria frowned. "Somehow I don't think I'll like this Jack Crawford if I ever end up meeting him."

"He's really not that bad. He's just fixed on this theory. Once it's been eliminated, he'll be a lot more pleasant to deal with."

"Which is why you called me." Victoria nervously chewed on one of her artificial nails.

"You help with victim advocacy. Abigail is a victim. Hannibal has always spoken so highly of how good you are with them. So naturally, I thought of you first. You're not a psychiatrist or an investigator. She might be a lot more open with you when she wakes up."

Victoria nodded. "She also might need a lawyer. There's a good one I can get hold of. And the hospital bills..."

"The Landry trust will take care of them?"

"Yes." Victoria pulled her phone out of her purse when it vibrated, and after reading what may have been some text or email she rolled her eyes and put it away. "My mom. She insists on bringing my stepfather and sisters here for Christmas again this year. It seems no one can get enough of Hannibal's cooking."

"I don't think anyone can," Alana said, and she watched as Victoria's expression took on a certain melancholy. "Is everything okay, Victoria?"

Victoria glanced up at Alana. "Sorry. I don't always like hospitals."

"Don't be sorry," Alana said comfortingly. "We all have our moments."

* * *

Abigail Hobbs didn't seem like a killer. At least not from what Victoria could see.

What Victoria saw was a pale, wispy girl in a coma, a girl newly alone in the world with no one to turn to. It really wasn't fair to assume that she was a killer when her own father had tried to kill her so that no one would be able to make any rhyme or reason of his crimes.

Abigail Hobbs would not be alone in the world when she woke up. Not if Victoria could help it.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Hannibal,_ but all original characters are mine.**

 

**Author's Notes:**

 

**Yes, the pork is people.**

 

**And no, Victoria doesn't care. Remember, Hannibal took care of a situation for her, so.**

 

**Please be advised that Alana and Victoria also respect each other and actually like each other, particularly since Victoria has found her calling as a sort of victim's advocate. Victoria _was_ a teacher before she went to grad school and after she hooked up with Hannibal, and her transition to victim's advocate will be traced as the fic goes on. T want this fic to pass the Bechdel Test, okay?**

 

**There will be no love triangles. Unless you count Hannibal and Victoria vs. Chianti, or Victoria and Hannibal vs. Beaujolais. Or Victoria and Hannibal vs. I'm Sick of Your Murdering, Gaslighting Bullshit.**

 

Playlist:

 

 _The Pursuit of Happiness,_ Lissie

 

 _Honey,_ The Hush Sound

 

 _Maps,_ Yeah Yeah Yeahs

 

 _Dark Waltz,_ Hayley Westenra

 

**Pretty Little Things**

 

**Chapter Nine**

 

_June, 2009._

 

They went to Florence for two weeks when school got out. Hannibal had always told Victoria that this was his favorite city, and she had made sure to read up on some of its history before they left for their vacation. When he would point something out to her and she would add some bit of information she had garnered from reading, he would smile down at her and kiss her.

 

“Did you read up on Florence before we left?” he asked her as they sauntered back to the apartment they had rented one afternoon. He took her hand into his, and she leaned closer to him.

 

“You know I have to know _something_ about where we're going,” she said. “I like how you tell me about the things you care about, and how you let me add to it with the things _I_ care about.”

 

“Was there a time when another man in my position _didn't_ care?”

 

She nodded. “College boyfriend, senior year. My longest relationship before you—a year. He told me I was too deep and too emotional. But he also thought literature was a waste of time and was very...controlling now that I think about it.” She shrugged. “But we broke up right before I graduated, so that was that. I was young, I'd made a mistake. I learned.” She lay her head on his shoulder. “And now I have you.”

 

“And I adore your depth,” he responded.

 

“Why is that?”

 

“We all have that mask we wear when we go out into the world. We only show certain aspects of ourselves, if anything at all. But some of us—people like you and me—are far more complex than we allow those around us to believe. When we allow someone to penetrate that mask and the layers behind it, we are showing every aspect of ourselves, things that gives us pride and things that are shameful. And we can only show it to certain people, because the unmasking, the lifting away of all of the layers—is a painful process, and why would we go through such pain only to know more pain through rejection?”

 

She lifted her head from his shoulder. “So you're saying that you're allowing me to see _all_ of you?”

 

“More or less, but one layer at a time. I'm a man of many layers.”

 

“Like an onion.” She saw him grin. “Like Shrek. Just much handsomer,” she added, and he laughed and squeezed her hand as they crossed the street.

 

******

 

_November, 2012._

 

“ _Me?”_ Tamille Martin's voice rose after Victoria told her about Abigail Hobbs's situation. Victoria held her cell phone away from her ear and made a face. “You want _me_ to represent the poor little girl who might have helped her dad kill at least eight other girls and who now is a _victim_? I have a lot of other women I could be helping, women who the cops are going to push around, women who've been pushed around by their boyfriends or baby's dads or abusers, women who can't catch a break...”

 

“And you fight for them,” Victoria said emphatically as she stood in front of the bathroom counter, waiting for the pregnancy test to show the result. “We fight tooth and nail for those women who can't catch a break, but in this situation, Abigail is one of those women because of what her father did and because she isn't awake to speak for herself. She needs people in her corner.”

 

“Did you go see her, Victoria?” Tamille asked, the tone of her contralto voice gently suspicious.

 

“Dr. Alana Bloom took me to see her yesterday. She's so little, Tamille...”

 

“She reminds you of yourself during your situation,” Tamille surmised, “only there's no one there to support her. Well, maybe except for the FBI agent who killed her dad...”

 

“I've met Will Graham,” Victoria cut in. “He's...he seems really nice. A little awkward, but nice. And I think he's honestly _sorry_ about what he had to do...”

 

Tamille was silent on her end of the line for the moment, and the ringing of Tamille's office phone interrupted their conversation.

 

“I'll call you back later,” Victoria promised, eager as she watched the result of the pregnancy test begin to show. “Please think about this...seriously.”

 

Tamille sighed audbily. “I will, but it doesn't mean I'm committing to anything,” she said.

 

Victoria hit the End button on her Blackberry just as the result showed on the pregnancy test.

 

She squealed in delight when she saw that it was positive.

 

And she texted the news to Hannibal.

 

He called back within a few minutes. “You're certain?” he asked her, and she could tell that he was trying to keep his excitement hidden. “You've taken more than one test?”

 

“I took both tests in the package,” she told him. “It's been confirmed. You're going to be a father, Dr. Lecter.”

 

She heard him chuckle at what she had just said. “I want to see you tonight,” he said beseechingly. “I want to cook dinner for you to celebrate. I want to make love to you and hold you as you sleep...Say you'll come tonight, Victoria.”

 

“I will.” The words were out of her mouth before she could even think about it, because they hadn't seen each other since last week when he had recommended that she see Dr. du Maurier, and they hadn't had sex for an even longer period. And even though she was still a little angry with him, she wanted to see him. She wanted to have sex with him, she wanted to sleep in his bed. She wanted to reach out for him and know that he was there.

 

“I love you, Victoria.” The words came from him so easily that they sounded sincere. Oh, how he played the game, how he played it so well...

 

“I love you, too, Hannibal,” she replied.

 

******

 

“What do you hope to accomplish from our sessions together, Victoria?” Dr. du Maurier asked Victoria as the younger woman perched on the chair across from hers.

 

“I want to be more independent,” Victoria said honestly, watching Dr. du Maurier's pen as the other woman took notes of what she was saying. “I want to manage this anxiety better, particularly since I just found out today I'm pregnant.”

 

“You're pregnant?” Dr. du Maurier seemed shocked. “Was this a surprise for you?”

 

“No. It was planned. It was just a matter of if and when. Now the when has happened, and I know what's going to come with it, but I'm still scared to death of all of it coming down on me at once.”

 

“Planned? Did _you_ plan this pregnancy?” Dr. du Maurier asked Victoria.

 

“We both did,” Victoria said quickly. “I mentioned to Hannibal earlier this year that I was thinking of a baby and starting a family, and we decided we'd try for a baby. Now we have that, and now we're most likely going to get married.” She glanced up at Dr. du Maurier. “Has he mentioned any of this?”

 

“I'm not really allowed to say,” Dr. du Maurier replied. “Doctor-patient privilege.”

 

“Of course,” Victoria murmured, folding her hands in her lap.

 

“Are you in love with him, Victoria? Do you feel that you could marry him and start a family with him?”

 

“Of course I do,” Victoria replied. “I always have.”

 

“Do you think he feels the same way?”

 

“Of course he does.”

 

Dr. du Maurier nodded, then make another note on her legal pad. Victoria craned her neck forward a little bit to see what she was writing.

 

_Man suit._

 

“The power distribution in the relationship—how is that?” Dr. du Maurier continued.

 

“It's...egalitarian.”

 

“Even though he was your psychiatrist for a short time?”

 

Victoria bit her lip. “Sometimes he does take the upper hand. It's...a lot of it has to do with codependency, I guess. He sees me as fragile, still, I think. He takes the upper hand, a lot...and I'll admit that I do let him. He doesn't want me to worry about everything, he wants to fix things. I spend so much time being strong for other people who need it, and when I go home to him, he does that for me.”

 

Dr. du Maurier inclined her head, leaning forward. “Why don't we start with the beginning of your relationship?” she suggested.

 

******

 

Victoria knew that Hannibal wasn't _good_. It didn't take a session with Dr. du Maurier for her to figure that out.

 

But really, when it all came down to it, at least _now_ , Victoria didn't care.

 

The words: power imbalance, independence, codependency.

 

Moreover, man suit.

 

_Man suit._

 

She unconsciously found herself chewing on her artificial nails once again, and she jumped and pulled her finger out of her mouth when the driver behind her honked at her to indicate that she ought to go since the light was green.

 

And she had been so defensive in her answers to Dr. du Maurier's questions.

 

 _Of course_. Of course as in _why wouldn't he_ or _why wouldn't I_.

 

There was no need to defend her relationship with Hannibal Lecter and how it worked to anyone. Each one gave the other what he or she wanted or needed, and things worked splendidly.

 

 

******

 

Jack Crawford met the mysterious Victoria Landry when he stopped by Hannibal Lecter's after hours to talk about Will and the effect that the situation with Garret Jacob Hobbs was still having on the consultant. When he rang the doorbell, he didn't expect to see a petite blonde answer the door.

 

“I'm Jack Crawford,” he explained, and he saw her purse her lips as she gave him a wary once-over. “I'm here to see Dr. Lecter. He's expecting me. May I come in?”

 

He thought he saw her eyes narrow a little bit, but she stepped back and said cordially, “Sure. Come in. Hannibal is in the kitchen making dinner. Are you staying?” She pivoted to face him as she led him from the foyer to the hallway and from there to the kitchen.

 

“It's just a quick visit. We won't be long. I didn't know he was going to have...company.”

 

Victoria shrugged. “He's a psychiatrist. I've learned to get used to it when people come looking for him after hours.” She sauntered into the kitchen, clearly at home here, Jack noted from her gait. “Hannibal. Jack Crawford from the FBI is here,” she announced, and Jack noted how Lecter seemed to react at the sound of her voice. Hannibal Lecter whirled from the stove to face them, wearing the bright look of courtesy at receiving a guest.

 

“Jack. How good of you to come. We were having _coq au violet_ , at Victoria's request.”

 

“He means chicken cooked in Beaujolais with pork parts. With roasted potatoes and a salad of spring greens with a fattoush dressing. I made the salad.” She went to the fridge for the Beaujolais wine, pouring a glass for Hannibal and herself. “Do you want some, Mr. Crawford?”

 

Jack was about to decline, but when Hannibal Lecter urged, “Please, just a glass,” he decided to take it just to see how the couple interacted.

 

It was like a carefully choreographed Fred and Ginger scene.

 

Victoria went for another wine glass, and when she came to Hannibal's side to pour the glass, the way Hannibal looked at her...

 

Was the way so many women would have killed to have a lover look at them.

 

“I am sorry, Victoria, but my conversation with Jack Crawford is what you would term...”

 

“Shop talk,” she finished blithely for Hannibal, and she set the glass down before Jack. Her own was empty, and Hannibal refilled it and handed it to her, placing a lingering kiss on her forehead before doing so. She smiled up at him before leaving, and Hannibal watched her as she exited the room.

 

Hannibal Lecter was clearly very much in love with the petite Hitchcock blonde who had just left the room.

 

******

 

Victoria Landry didn't trust the police. Hannibal Lecter explained as much to Jack Crawford.

 

Seeing as how sloppily and how asininely the D.C. Police had handled her sexual assault, Jack couldn't blame her.

 

So now Victoria was Hannibal Lecter's princess, his darling.

 

Once they were done talking shop, Jack rose to leave, reaching for his coat.

 

Hannibal led him through the foyer, past the living room where Victoria had been reading.

 

She glanced up from her e-reader, watching him leave with cool blue eyes.

 

She was always watching him.

 

In the future, Jack Crawford would compare Victoria Landry-Lecter to an owl. With chilly blue eyes.

 

******

 

“What if it's a boy?”

 

“I don't know. Surely you have names you liked...”

 

“I've never thought of a child before you.” He passed his hand over her belly, as though wanting to touch the thing they had created within her.

 

“Then we need names. I've always liked Paul. For a boy.”

 

“I like Paul.” Hannibal reached for her. “Augustus.”

 

“Not like my dad.” She rolled over to face him, running her fingers through his chest hair. “Alexis. I always think of _La Vie de St. Alexis_.”

 

“For a girl?”

 

“Zoe Michaela. We could call her Mischa...”

 

“I _do_ like that.” He seemed to be thinking. “You're bringing me everything I never expected, Victoria.”

 

“How's that?” She felt sleepy, content.

 

“You're going to marry me, and you're going to have my baby. You've brought me everything, Victoria. Just like you say I've given you everything.” His kisses were soft, gentle. “I love you, Victoria.”

 

“Hannibal.” When she murmured his name he held her close, and he buried his face into her hair.  
  
“Tell me,” he whispered.

 

“I love you, Hannibal.” The words, the words that spoke the truth. “You've given me the world, freedom, _everything.”_

 

“Then it's truly been _quid pro quo_ , hasn't it, Victoria?” he said softly.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**And yes, this is the _one time_ that Hannibal wasn't as meticulous as usual...but shit happens, right? And Victoria was already having a _really_ bad day...**

 

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Hannibal_ and all original characters are mine.**

 

Playlist:

 

_Bad Romance,_ Lady Gaga _and_ 30 Seconds to Mars's cover

 

_Wine Red,_ The Hush Sound

 

_Serial Killer,_ Lana del Rey

 

_Poison and Wine,_ The Civil Wars

 

**Pretty Little Things**

 

**Chapter Ten**

 

In August of 2009, while they had been at her friend Heather's wedding in California, he had asked her what kind of engagement ring she would want.

 

“Are you planning on proposing anytime soon?” she had asked him laughingly.

 

“Do you _want_ me to propose anytime soon?” he had riposted, coming up behind her to help her unzip her ridiculously bright pink bridesmaid dress.

 

She slipped the dress off, revealing the black lacy lingerie she was wearing underneath. She heard him draw a breath, and despite the appearance of maintaining a certain control over himself, she could see the spark of lust in his deep brown eyes. “Victoria,” he intoned.

 

She went to him and kissed him.

 

“A sapphire. Like in _The Age of Innocence_.”

 

“You and your love of Edith Wharton,” he had chuckled before his lips closed over hers.

 

******

 

Hannibal was never one to downplay any occasion. And he certainly would not downplay this marriage proposal.

 

He let her sleep in until nine, and she awoke to the smells of breakfast cooking. She got out of bed, washed her face, brushed her teeth, and went downstairs to the kitchen to see that he was in the middle of making a small brunch, complete with mimosas, hash browns, sausages, and omelets. He had set two places at the counter for them, and she felt a little thrill of excitement when she saw the little velvet box in what she assumed was her place.

 

“Good morning,” she heard him say, and she went to him and kissed him on the cheek.

 

“Morning,” she replied. “Everything smells wonderful. As always.”

 

“Always wonderful enough to lure you out of bed.” He smiled, watching as she sauntered to the counter for her mimosa. “Are you wondering what's in the box?”

 

“So it's all right if I open it?” she said, sitting down at the place set for her and putting down the glass.

 

“With you, it's better to not delay gratificaton...when it comes to gifts.” He brought their plates to the table. “You'll be fidgeting and wondering what it is and not enjoy your breakfast. So please, open it.”

 

She reached for the box and carefully opened it. He came to her side when he heard her gasp at the box's contents. “Oh, Hannibal, you _listened_! And it's...it's gorgeous!” She removed the engagement ring from the box and handed it to him.

 

“You'd like me to put it on?” he asked her. She nodded, and gracefully he plucked it from her fingers and slipped in onto the ring finger of her left hand, kissing her after he did so. “It's an antique engagement ring from the early 1900s. I had it sent from Paris.”

 

“Was it a family heirloom?” she queried, admiring how it looked on her hand. It was a midnight blue sapphire, the very kind she had wanted, mounted in a gold claw setting and surrounded by small diamonds.

 

He shook his head, smiling. “I knew what I wanted you to have, and I had some assistance in finding it.”

 

“Your aunt?” she guessed. She had met his aunt once when they had gone to Paris a few years ago; Lady Murasaki—no, Akako, they'd insisted Victoria call her—was clearly a brilliant woman, and

Hannibal thought very highly of her. And she had seemed to approve of Victoria...

 

“She knew of some jewelers who might carry such a ring...and I was able to obtain it. She'll be pleased to hear how thrilled you are.” He went to his seat and began to eat, and Victoria followed suit. Yes, everything tasted wonderful, so long as she didn't think about what the source of the meat really was.

 

“I thought of a nursery theme,” she said as he went to get some coffee for her. “What do you think of Peter Rabbit? It would be good for either a boy or a girl, and we could use it again if we wanted more...Which bedroom were you thinking of making into a nursery?”

 

“The smaller guest room. As for a wedding...”

 

“I want something smaller, more private...for now. We can do something more after the baby is born.”

 

“Something smaller would be perfect, considering the circumstances. Do you want a Catholic priest?”

 

“Hannibal, I haven't attended Mass in years, but it's very kind of you to consider that. A justice of the peace or some kind of minister or chaplain who can do a nondenominational ceremony is just fine with me.”

 

“Your family will be in town the week of Christmas. That would be the best time for the ceremony.” He smiled. “A white dress might be a bit of a lie, of course.”

 

She had to laugh at that. “Of course, but it's a forgivable one.”

 

“I think you would look ravishing in white. But I would prefer blue.”

 

“To match the ring?”

 

“To match your eyes.”

 

She opened her mouth to say something cheeky, but the ringing of the telephone interrupted their conversation. He excused himself and went to answer it, and she could tell that it had something to do with one of his patients by the way he left the room. She continued eating her breakfast and took her plate to the sink once she had finished. She heard him enter the kitchen again.

 

“That was Jack Crawford,” he explained, placing the cordless phone back on the charger.

 

“Really?” she replied, putting her silverware and plate in the dishwasher. “What did he have to say?”

“Abigail Hobbs is awake.”

 

******

 

_October, 2009._

 

Finding out that her cat had cancer that morning and then learning that McCarren had discovered her new address and had sent her a letter sent Victoria over the edge.

 

Her first reaction was to call Hannibal, but it went straight to voicemail. She texted him that she was coming over, that she wanted to stay the night because she was scared to death. She packed a bag, made sure there was enough food and water for Lucy, and hurried out of her apartment, locking the door behind her. She wasn't sure how she stayed focused enough to drive to his house, but it happened.

 

She let herself in with the key he had given her some time ago, dropping her bag and her purse in a chair by the front door. She heard the sounds of Mozart playing from the kitchen, but other than that, the house was oddly quiet.

 

She made her way through the kitchen, where it looked as though he was getting set to prepare something. She went on to the basement and continued down the stairs.

 

The cellar was as old as the house, but Hannibal had paid a fortune to have it updated and turned into an extra storey of the house that had multiple uses. She knew that he kept some of his wine down there and that he was trying his hand at making home-brewed beer and kept everything needed for that there. The deep freezer where he kept the meat from his butcher was down there, too, and then there was the other room where he kept the files on his patients.

 

She saw him in the room where he kept much of his wine, and he was getting something out of the stainless steel deep freezer.

 

“Hannibal.”

 

He whirled around when he saw her, the bag of frozen meat still in his hand, and she couldn't believe the contents. Her jaw went slack, and she began to tremble.

 

She knew what lungs— _human_ lungs—looked like.

 

He put the bag back on the shelf, closing the freezer door. His motions were well thought out, measured, but beneath the icy veneer there was something else.

 

She had never seen this side of him before.

 

“Did you attempt to call before you came, Victoria?” he asked her, taking a step toward her.

 

She nodded wildly, walking backwards, finding the staircase, venturing upward, one step at a time. “I even tried to text. You didn't answer.”

 

“But still you came.” He mounted the staircase, ascending one step at a time, just as she was. “That's rather discourteous...which is rather unlike you.” He inclined his head. “Were you trying to surprise me?”

 

“ _No!”_ Tears began to stream down her face. She watched as he mounted one more step.

 

Something snapped within her. She turned and ran up the stairs as quickly as she could...with heels on.

 

But he was faster. He caught her from behind. She fought back, struggling. His grasp around her tightened. She kicked him in the shin, she clawed at his hands and face, even as he attempted to turn around to face him.

 

“Stop struggling!” he ordered.

 

“Fucking let go of me!” She elbowed him in the stomach, stepped on his toe with the heel of her boot, hearing a crunch...

 

He let go of her.

 

She was able to get into the foyer and reach for her purse and pull out the Colt M1911A1 she had obtained a CCW for so long ago. She cocked it as she heard him round the corner. She turned and pointed it at him.

 

He stopped dead in his tracks. “Victoria,” he said in astonishment.

 

“Don't come near me. Don't you _fucking_ come near me, Hannibal!” she exclaimed. “If you do, I swear to God, I'll shoot you...”

 

“And you're not going to let me explain myself?” he asked her quietly, holding up his hands to indicate that he had no weapons on him. “Will you let me sit down? I sustained some injuries during our

misunderstanding.” He indicated one of the chairs in the foyer, and she nodded at him, watching his every move. “Or else...you could begin.”

 

She let her guard down, and she felt hot tears roll down her cheeks. “He— _he_ has found out where I live in Baltimore. He sent me a letter...”

 

“You read it?”

 

“Yes.”  
  
“Victoria.” His voice grew soft, as it did when he would hold her after another nightmare. “And your first thought was to come to me?”

 

She nodded, sniffling. “And my cat...L-Lucy...”

 

“Oh, Victoria.” There was a flicker of pity on his face that came and went like an eyeblink.

 

“And you? What do you have to tell me?” she persisted. “Those _were_ human lungs, weren't they?”

 

“Yes, they were.”

 

“How did you get them?” She didn't want to put two and two together, she wanted him to say it, but still it came out of her mouth. “You...Are you the Chesapeake Ripper? Please say you're not!”

 

He said nothing.

 

Hannibal, usually so calm, so dapper, so sure of himself, tried to maintain some of that air right here and now, held at gunpoint by his girlfriend, disheveled and slightly injured from their physical fight. There were scratches on his arms from her, and one on his face, and probably nice bruises starting to form on his shin and torso and a broken toe...

 

“I won't lie to you, Victoria. I owe you that much,” he said. “You are correct: I'm the Chesapeake Ripper. Now what are you going to do—call the police and tell them about everything, including what's in this house, including what I've just told you? In spite of what I have to offer?”

 

“What do you have to offer?” She took another step toward him.

 

“I can set you free from the hold _he_ has had on you for so long.”

 

“And you won't kill me?”

 

“I would never kill you, Victoria. You mean too much to me. Just as long as you keep my secrets...and don't betray my trust.”

 

She lowered the gun. “And what else is in this for me?”

 

“I will be what I've always been to you: a companion, a lover, a confidant, a helpmeet. I will set you free from _him_ , and if you ask for it, I will give you the world.”

 

She clapped her hand over her mouth to muffle her sob, and she put the gun down and went to him. He held her so close and so gently. “You must know, though,” he whispered into her ear, “that I can't love you in the way you want to be loved.”

 

“Just tell me you love me, and do all of the things you just said you would,” she said, “and I'll believe it every time you tell me you love me.”

 

******

 

He found his Smartphone in the study and found that she _had_ indeed tried to call him and that she had sent him a few texts.

 

He capitulated to her suggestion to order some Mediterranean food and have it delivered, and he allowed her to make ice packs for his bruises while he taped up his left big toe.

 

“You've fed everyone...human parts...even _me_?” she asked him as she poured him some wine.

 

“Only the parts you would like,” he said. “And how is it so different from other animals who do it—chimpanzees or bears, for instance? And all of those meals, you assured me, were delicious.”

 

“But why?” she asked him. “Why kill them and take their parts?”

 

He leaned over, pressing his forehead to her own. “Because they were pigs,” he explained, “and it was time for each one to be slaughtered and butchered.”

 

******

 

They had much of what Victoria supposed could be make-up sex that night. He was as gentle with her as he could be, and he held her for some time as they lay silently in his bed.

 

She knew she was deluding herself. But she wanted to be _free_ of McCarren, she wanted what Hannibal could give her, she wanted all of Hannibal for himself.

 

“How am I different from the rest of them?” she asked him.

 

He turned to face her, his lips curving upwards. “You're familiar with the stories of the gods choosing mortal women as consorts?”

 

“So you're a horny Greek god looking to hook up with some mortal hottie for the night?” she said, laughing.

 

“No. Think of the story of Eros and Psyche. She was eventually allowed to live on Olympus with him.”

 

“So that explains the small replica of the Canova sculpture in the living room. But that still doesn't explain to me how I'm...different.”

 

He kissed her. “You were beautiful, clever, and intriguing. Mostly intriguing. And I wanted to help you, but soon I wanted to become more than just your psychiatrist.”

 

“How do you want to deal with McCarren?” His grip tightened around her when she mentioned the name. “I'm going to have Lou take care of reporting the letter. Just so it's documented. But he still will eventually get out.”

 

“If he came after you again, would you kill him?” Hannibal queried suddenly.

 

“I'm sure I would. You?”

 

“I wouldn't hesitate, Victoria, especially if he tried to harm you again.”

 

And from the way he looked at her, she knew that someday, somehow, McCarren was going to die at Hannibal's hands.

 

She just didn't know exactly when or how it would happen.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Hannibal,_ but all original characters are mine.**

 

**Something to note: People who are isolated or tend to isolate themselves freom others seem to be prime targets for Hannibal. Will is very isolated, as is Abigail and even Bedeilia du Maurier. So is Victoria, since her family and friends are mostly on the West Coast and she moved to Baltimore to be closer to Hannibal. Notice how he seems to regard her as something pretty and decorative; she exists not only to help him maintain his facade, but to also keep him entertained and feeling like a normal human being. Yes, she knows about what he does, but there's a reason why she won't tell anyone else about it.**

 

Playlist:

 

 _E.V.O.L.,_ Marina and the Diamonds

 

 _Dance, Little Liar,_ Arctic Monkeys

 

 _Ice Wine,_ Lia Ices

 

 _The Wolf & I, _Oh Land

 

**Pretty Little Things**

 

**Chapter Eleven**

 

When asked how she could have separated the parts of Hannibal she knew and loved from the killer and consumer of human flesh, Victoria would reply that it was all too easy to do so. He had only to continue being the man she thought he was, the man she wanted him to be, and in return, she would help to preserve the carefully constructed facade of Hannibal Lecter.

 

First it started with lying for him. On the nights he killed, he would have a set story for an alibi, and she would memorize it.

 

On those nights, she would take the papers she needed to grade and the lessons she needed to plan with her to Hannibal's, along with her laptop. The silence of the house bothered her, and she would usually play music or watch TV while working and waiting for him. Once he came home with the meat he had taken from his latest victim, he would take it to the kitchen, then come out to talk to her for a moment, asking her how work was going, briefly describing his day, and then asking her, “And what did we do tonight?”

 

She would recite the account of what they were have supposed to have done that evening in her own words, and he would correct her as needed, showing how pleased he was with her when she finally got it right.

 

She found it difficult to sleep sometimes, because her mind wandered, and she would ask herself just _why_ she thought this was okay.

 

It was simple. Because she loved Hannibal. Because he'd promised that he was going to make the boogeyman of her past go away. Because he loved her, or so he said.

 

When she told him she couldn't sleep, he had her try Trazadone. And finally, she could sleep.

 

******

 

_November, 2009._

 

The letters still came. Victoria couldn't read them, they sickened her so, but she showed them to Hannibal, who could. He would peruse them, the corners of his lips tightening as he would come across the threats. When he was done, he would fold up the letter, neatly put it back into the envelope, and advise her to send it to her lawyer so that it could be reported.

 

“Do you intend on doing anything about it?” she asked him as she sat with him in his study after all of his appointments had left.

 

“What would you like me to do about it?” he asked her as he handed her a glass of wine and and took a seat in the chair across from hers.

 

“I don't know. Whatever it is you do to people who are...rude. That is, if you think he's rude.”

 

“What makes you think I don't find him to be rude?” Hannibal said curiously.

 

“So you _do_ think he's rude.”

 

“Do you want him dead, Victoria?” Hannibal said very quietly, his eyes not leaving her.

 

Such a question! She shouldn't _want_ someone to be killed, but in this instance with Robert McCarren, he had taken more from her than she could ever get back. And yes, he ought to pay for it.

 

“If I ask you to kill him, Hannibal, would you do it?” she queried.

 

“Do you _want_ me to kill him?”

 

The choice. He was giving her the ultimate choice of whether or not Robert McCarren should die. Yes, of course Hannibal had no problem killing him and no doubt had perfect reason to. But to more or less ask for the death of someone who had tormented her for so long...

 

“Yes,” Victoria replied, “yes, I want you to kill him. And when you do it, I want to be there to watch him suffer in the worst way possible before he finally dies.”

 

The corners of Hannibal's lips curved upwards into an enigmatic smile, and he lifted his wine glass in Victoria's direction as though to toast her. “You are truly brilliant,” he told her, bringing the glass to his mouth, his lips caressing the rim of it like a kiss.

 

******

 

“You always give the _most delightful_ dinner parties, Hannibal,” Mrs. Komeda pronounced eloquently, and almost as if on cue, Hannibal smiled modestly.

 

“You're flattering me, Mrs. Komeda,” he replied humbly. “Surely you've come across some wonderful cooks in your time, even better than myself.”

 

“No, I haven't,” Mrs. Komeda insisted. “Victoria, you're spoiled. Does he always put on such a show for you?”

 

Victoria glanced up from her plate as she put her fork down. “When he cooks?”

 

“Yes, when he cooks.” Mrs. Komeda sounded a little annoyed that Victoria had only been half-listening to the conversation. “Is it always as wonderful a performance as this one is?”

 

“He tries to make it one. Mostly, though, he's a terrible flirt. But I love being with him in the kitchen when he's cooking.” Victoria cast Hannibal a loving look and smiled at him. “He's so amazing.”

 

“Victoria exaggerates.” Hannibal took her hand into his and kissed it. “But I do love showing off for her in the kitchen.”

 

“You're not much of a cook, Victoria?” Mrs. Komeda said, tilting her head and puckering her lips.

 

“Not when compared to Hannibal. In fact, he always sends me home with leftovers or _something_ for lunch the next day so I eat well. He takes care of me like that.”

 

“Lucky girl,” Mrs. Komeda said enviously.

 

Victoria dared not to tell her anything else about what Hannibal would take care of for her, though.

 

******

 

She liked him best in his pajamas, slightly disheveled from sex with her, having wiped away sweat from their exertions or sweeping his hair away from his magnificent brow before coming back to bed.

 

The back-to-bed Hannibal was different from the end-of-day Hannibal. The back-to-bed Hannibal was content, carnally satisfied after a round or two of sex with her, be it tender or vigorous, and lulled her to lassitude and sleep with pretty promises, which he never forgot, which he eventually fulfilled.

 

“What do you think of Dublin?” he asked her that night, pulling her to him after he lie down.

 

“I'd like Dublin for this summer.”

 

“Or Spain? I've always wanted to see the palace at Alhambra again.”

 

“Or that too. I don't know, you pick for this year, Hannibal.”

 

“Or Gretna Green...”

 

“Shut up,” she said, laughing.

 

The _shut up_ was a playful one, not meant to be discourteous, and he understood that.

 

“I've never been to Dublin,” he said to her. “Let's go to Dublin this summer. It's fair enough warning; you can start making your reading list now.”

 

“How about _you_ read a few of them?” Victoria suggested, gently tapping him on the chest with her index finger to make her point.

 

“I'll make my own,” he assured her. “I'll teach you about certain aspects of the art and architecture, and you can teach me about the history. Like we've always done.” He kissed her on the forehead. “This is why I've always enjoyed traveling with you. You make it intriguing.”

 

“Am I anything else to you other than intriguing?” she asked him seriously.

 

He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You're fishing for something. Compliments? How many adjectives can I use to describe what you mean to me?”

 

“No...not that. I...Why didn't you just let me go back to California when I was finished with my dissertation? Why did you ask me to stay and why did you tell me you loved me when you and I both _know_ that it wasn't true?” she babbled out. She gasped when she saw the coldness in his face, the way he looked at her, not with adoration but with the pride she so often saw when he would pause to contemplate an item in his collection: the Ophelia print, for example, or the unknown original of Edward Burne-Jones's _King Cophetua and the Beggar Maid_ that he had somehow managed to obtain _._

 

“I couldn't let you just leave,” he said. “You had found a place for yourself here, and I didn't want to part with you. You've always been precious to me. When I said that, I wanted to see how you would react, what you would do, And I'm rather pleased with the outcome. Aren't you?”  
  


“Of course I am,” she managed to say, and he stroked her hair away from her face and kissed her.

 

******

 

She was part of his collection. An acquisition.

 

He had helped her to rebuild her life, he had given her the world, but only in the way he saw fit.

 

He had made her his and she had accepted him—all of him—the good and the bad, and he had allowed her some claim over him. And neither one of them could let the other go.

 

******

 

_November, 2012._

 

When Hannibal arrived home from the Port Haven Psychiatric Facility that afternoon he found Victoria in the living room doing yoga with the guidance of the DVD currently in the player. She smiled at him in greeting. He watched her for a few moments as she transitioned from Tree Pose position to Warrior Two position.

 

“I made the appropriate people aware of our engagement,” he said as she arched back into Warrior One. “Alana Bloom and Will Graham will be joining us for dinner tonight. Alana would like you to see Abigail tomorrow afternoon, or Monday at the latest.”

 

“Why so soon?” Victoria asked curiously.

 

“I would ask Alana that question. You _will_ go out of your way to make Will Graham feel comfortable, won't you?”

 

“Of course I will,” Victoria said. “Do they know about the baby?”

 

“Alana knows, yes.”

 

“What did she say?”

 

“She was astonished at the abruptness of everything, but she understands. As for Will Graham, it is up to you whether or not to tell him.” He rose from the couch and started to make his way into the kitchen, but then he retraced his steps to say something more to her. “Alana mentioned that she has always liked you, Victoria, and that she thinks that you could help Abigail Hobbs readjust immensely. You're not an investigator or a psychiatrist; you would be looking out for her best interests. If Jack Crawford wants to crucify her, he'll have to get through you—and Alana—first. And whoever else you bring on to help Abigail.”

 

“I've already spoken to Tamille Martin about taking Abigail's case if needed. Because Tamille is hardcore.”

 

“As are you.”

 

“Hannibal.” She stopped the DVD, then went to him. “You're really concerned about this girl, aren't you?”

 

“I regard her as a patient. And I would do my best by my her, even if it would mean involving you in her treatment.” He kissed her on the tip of her nose. “Finish your yoga. When you're ready, join me in the kitchen while I get everything ready. I want to hear your laughter.”

 

“That only depends on whether or not you'll say things that'll make me laugh,” she teased.

 

“When have I not been able to make you laugh?” he said, and she pushed him away so that she could finish her yoga.

 

******

 

Will Graham met Victoria Landry again that night when she answered the door with a gentle, “Hi, Will. Nice to see you again.” She led him through the house into the kitchen where Hannibal was making dinner, and she poured him a glass of white wine and led him into the living room where there hung a copy of Edward Burne-Jones's _King Cophetua and the Beggar Maid_ and where a small replica of Canova's _Cupid and Psyche_ graced a side table.

 

Will hadn't really seen any pictures of Victoria in Hannibal's study, just the Ophelia sketch, and the reasons why were obvious: Hannibal was one to keep his private and professional lives separate. There hadn't been much talk of Victoria, except when Jack or Alana had asked Hannibal about her. And there had been the few words she and Will had exchanged at the hospital when Abigail had first been admitted, but other than that, Hannibal had kept that aspect of his life private. Until today.

 

Now Hannibal was engaged to Victoria Landry, and the sapphire and diamond ring sparkled on her left ring finger as she flicked through Hannibal's CDs until she came to Mozart.

 

“What do you think?” she said once she put it on. “Will it work?”

 

“I think so,” he replied, watching her as she went to sit on the couch. She crossed her legs, sipping her wine once more, and then she set her glass aside.

 

“So,” she said. “About Abigail.”

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Thanks for the reviews, favorites, and follows. I appreciate them. Yes, the awkwardness between Will and Victoria will continue for awhile.**

  
  


**Playlist:**

  
  


**_Skinny Love,_ ** **Birdy**

  
  


**_Blackout,_ ** **Muse**

  
  


**_Slow and Steady,_ ** **Of Monsters and Men**

  
  


**_If I Had a Hear_ ** **t, Fever Ray**

  
  


**Disclaimer: I don't own** __**Hannibal,** _ _ **but all original characters are mine.**

 

**Pretty Little Things**

 

**Chapter Twelve**

 

“What about her?” Will sat down in the chair next to hers.

 

Victoria inclined her head, fiddling with the hem of her peacock-colored v-neck sweater. “Hannibal and Alana want me to talk to her, help her out. Do you have any concerns?”

 

He avoided her lapis blue stare, one that reminded him of Abigail Hobbs. “Why are you asking the man who shot and killed her father? Why not just ask Abigail herself?”

 

“I'm just trying to see if there's anything I need to know before going in, anything that Hannibal and Alana might have missed out on.” Victoria leaned forward, her hands folded together primly in her lap, her face taking on an air of genuine concern.

 

“So what exactly would you _do_? What would you be getting from this that no one else could?”

 

Victoria sighed. “My father formed the Landry trust to assist local women and children in dire situations when it came to domestic violence. He saw the O.J. trial and was sick at how little recourse Nicole Brown-Simpson had. Had there been better laws and resources, in his mind, then she and Ronald Goldman would still be alive. An attorney in L.A. runs the trust, and after what I went through, we started to provide more assistance for victims and survivors of rape, sexual assault, and stalking. Abigail's case is a little different from what we handle, but it falls under the umbrella of domestic violence. I would go in, talk to her, explain what the trust can offer, hook her up with an attorney and counseling if needed, and just be there for her.”

 

“So you're in victim advocacy.”

 

“In a way. More of assisting with aftercare and transitioning from victim to survivor.”

 

“Do you have a degree in psychology?” Will asked her, intentionally avoiding eye contact with her.

 

“No, but I'm a survivor myself. I'm good with being supportive and hooking people up with whatever help they might need. As of right now, I've been doing a lot of the admin work. Alana is convinced I could help Abigail. I used to be a teacher, and I've dealt with that age group.”

 

There was an awkward silence in the room. Victoria looked over at the bookshelves, pretending to be interested in what titles Hannibal might have when it was clear she was already quite familiar with them. She was nice enough, Will supposed, and she certainly didn't have the gift of the gab like Hannibal did. Alana had mentioned that Victoria was a little shy and that it took her some time to feel at ease with people. “What's your degree in?” Will asked Victoria. She seemed to relax now; she changed her position on the couch and made eye contact with him.  
  
“English and French language and lit. I have a master's degree concentrating on mid-nineteenth to early twentieth century British lit.” She seemed a little friendlier now, and some of her initial reserve had dissipated. “You?”

 

“Forensic science and psychology.”

 

“Bachelor's?”

 

“Master's. In both.”

 

“Well,” she said, smiling, “at least neither one of us is stupid.”

 

She was still anxious. He could tell as much from the way she kept fidgeting.

 

The tension was broken by the arrival of Alana Bloom, who arrived with a bottle of champagne and handed it to Victoria. “Congratulations!” Alana said, hugging Victoria. “I'm so happy for both of you. It's happening all at one time, but I can't think of two people who deserve it more.”

 

“Deserve what?” Will asked as Alana hung up her coat. Victoria bit her lip, playing with the silver pendant of her Tiffany monogram necklace.

 

“No one told you?” Alana said incredulously, glancing at Victoria. “I assumed Hannibal would...about the other part...Did you tell him, Victoria?”

 

Victoria shifted uneasily, then managed a wan smile. “We're also expecting a baby.”

 

This took Will aback. It had always seemed like Dr. Lecter was the kind of man who planned his life down to the tiniest detail, and an unplanned pregnancy somehow didn't fit into it. But the good doctor was quick-witted and poised enough to find a way to land on his feet and make this all out to be a pleasant surprise.

 

“We've been talking about getting married anyway,” Victoria explained, leading them to the kitchen so that she could put the champagne in the fridge. Hannibal looked up when he heard them, and bid both Will and Alana good evening as he took the racks of lamb out of the oven.

 

“Alana brought us some congratulatory champagne,” Victoria told Hannibal, going over to him and showing him the bottle before she put it in the fridge. Will noticed how she seemed more relaxed around Hannibal, how Hannibal looked at her differently than he did other people.

 

“That's very kind of you, Alana. Thank you. We'll save it for after dinner. And Will—has Victoria been a good hostess to you? Anything less would be intolerable.”

 

It took Will a moment to realize that the doctor was joking. Victoria laughed and placed her hand on Hannibal's bicep, leaning against him for just a moment.

 

“Don't worry,” Will told Hannibal. “She's been wonderful.”

 

As Alana and Victoria went into the dining room, Hannibal's eyes lingered on Victoria, and he murmured, “I knew that she would be.”

 

******  
  
Hannibal Lecter didn't fail any of his dinner guests, Victoria thought as he presented each course proudly. The best part, though, was the dessert of panna cotta with strawberries. Soon talk turned to the tabloid website Tattlecrime.com, at which Victoria shook her head.

 

“You've had a run-in with Tattlecrime.com?” Will asked Victoria.

 

“A reporter from the _Tattler_ tried to get an interview with Robert McCarren when he was still in prison, so they could get his side of the story,” Victoria told Will.

 

“But the _Tattler_ never ran the story,” Will remembered. “They shut down soon after. Why?”

 

“Victoria has a good lawyer with connections,” Hannibal replied on her behalf. “There were other lawsuits already in progress, filed by the victims of other crimes the _Tattler_ had covered. It was easier for the tabloid to go out of business.”

 

“So out of the ashes of the _Tattler_ , Tattlecrime.com was born. And a hack named Freddie Lounds has been cashing in ever since,” Will muttered.

 

“I had nothing to do with it,” Victoria said, almost defensively, her heart beginning to quicken and hr hands beginning to tremble. “People think L.A. is a big city, but it's really not. My dad had friends who still cared about me. Word got around. Someone bought them out and shut them down. Even if the _Tattler_ was still on newsstands, you still would have seen Freddie Lounds around.” She pushed her chair back. “Excuse me. I need to use the bathroom.”

 

Maybe Hannibal was the only one who noted that she went upstairs to use the bathroom, that she really wanted a Xanax. She could hear him explaining things to Will, that she didn't always like it when people brought up what had happened to her, like she was marked for life by it...

 

Was taking Xanax good for the baby?

 

She would ask him about it, she decided, taking the recommended dosage. Besides, he would have said something by now.

 

She went back downstairs and soon the Xanax began to take effect. She heard Alana remark on how McCarren's skeletonized remains had been found in the Blue Ridge Mountains last summer, how it seemed he just may have accidentally fallen off of the trail or just committed suicide.

 

“It was most likely suicide,” Hannibal posited lightly. He shook his head. “It was a pity he was so troubled. I keep thinking that I could have helped him, but I had to protect Victoria first.”

 

“There's nothing you could have done, Hannibal,” Alana said as Victoria entered the living room, taking a seat at Hannibal's side on the couch. “He didn't want the help.” Alana looked at Victoria sympathetically. Victoria found herself inching a bit closer to Hannibal, and he took her hand into his, perhaps to still hers from trembling.   
  
“I really don't want to discuss him anymore,” Victoria said resolutely. “If you don't mind,” she added when she saw how Will and Alana looked at her, “can we talk about something else?”

 

Maybe she was being whiny and neurotic, but _they_ had brought it up, _they_ had triggered her, which was a little insensitive, though not rude.

 

“Victoria, Will is a teacher, too,” Hannibal began.

 

“Not a teacher. More of a lecturer,” Will corrected as he adjusted his glasses.

 

“Where do you lecture?” Victoria asked.

 

“At the FBI Academy. Profiling.”

 

“I see,” Victoria replied.

 

“Will has a singular ability, Victoria. He's able to empathize with killers. With the darkness inside their minds,” Hannibal went on.

 

_Just like you._

 

 _Just like_ us.

 

_I'm proud of you, Victoria. You did what needed to be done. You finished what you started a few years ago. Now he's gone and he won't hurt you again. You were strong. For that, I love you, Victoria. And I would never abandon you._

 

“Wow,” Victoria said in spite of herself. “Do—do you like your job?”

 

“Not always.” Will eyed her levelly. “Do _you_ like _your_ job?”

 

“I feel like I'm making a difference,” Victoria answered.

 

“So do I,” Will said.

 

******

 

“Did you like Will Graham?” Hannibal asked Victoria as they saw to the dishes and cleanup.

 

“He's interesting,” Victoria replied as she put the flatware into the dishwasher.

 

“So he doesn't like _you_?”

 

“He doesn't seem to.”

 

“I think he liked you.” Hannibal bent to kiss her gently.

 

“He triggered me, Hannibal. I had to go upstairs to get a Xanax.”

 

“He has that quality in him. Not one of his more admirable traits,” Hannibal murmured.

 

“Do _you_ find him to be interesting?” Victoria asked him.

 

“From a psychiatric standpoint, yes,” Hannibal replied, picking up a dishcloth to help her dry the dishes.

 

“Anything else?”

 

He smirked down at her. “Victoria, you know I can't divulge that,” he chided, turning his focus to putting away the wineglasses. This meant that the conversation was effectively over.

 

“My medications,” she began incongruously. “Would they be bad for the baby?”

 

He turned to her. “Would you like to be weaned off of them? Do you think that you would be stable enough to function without them and not do anything to endanger the baby or yourself?”

 

“No.” She shuddered, remembering the suicide attempt she had made while in college.

 

“Then you ought to remain on the medications. Wellbutrin doesn't have the side effects on the fetus that other medications have.” He sounded so clinical when he said that, as though he were counseling one of his patients and not talking to the woman who was going to be his wife.

 

“Do you mind if I go to bed?” she asked him. “I'm really, really tired.”

 

He glanced at her, then returned to drying the pots and pans he had used and putting them away. “If you're tired, Victoria, then by all means go to bed. I'll be up soon.”

 

She went to him and kissed him good night, then went upstairs to get ready for bed.

 

She loved Hannibal's bedroom, loved the deep cherrywood furniture and the burgandies, browns, and golds of the bedsheets,quilt, and rug. Maybe it was more of a sentimental thing, a room she associated with good memories. How many times he had told her he had loved her, here, in this very bed, and how many times she had believed him or forced herself to believe him after he told her he wasn't capable of loving her in the way she wanted.

 

As she got into bed, she noticed the framed picture of the two of them at his bedside, one taken in Florence. She had been so deliriously happy during those weeks, before everything had fallen apart around her. She had let herself be head over heels in love with him, and she had believed that he genuinely loved her.

 

She heard him coming upstairs, and he entered the bedroom, loosening his tie. When he saw her looking at the picture, he sat down on his side of the bed, taking the frame from the table. “This has always been my favorite picture of you and me,” he said to her. “It would be nice to go there again. Not this summer, of course. But when the baby is older.”

 

He was already planning all of the great things he would expose this baby to, Victoria realized. She watched him put the frame back on the table. He removed his tie and jacket and stood up to start getting ready for bed. It was something Victoria had always enjoyed watching, the ritual behind all of it, the lithe grace with which he moved.

 

“I've advised Will Graham not to ask you any more questions about McCarren's death,” Hannibal told her, pulling a shirt that matched his pajama bottoms over his head. “I told him that what McCarren did isn't the only thing that defines you, and that you've put it behind you. He was very undersstanding about it.”

 

“Maybe he was able to empathize with me,” Victoria said, and Hannibal chuckled as he came to bed at her side.

 

“I told you that night, after he died...” Hannibal began as he lie down.

 

“After we killed him.” Victoria moved closer to him, wanting to feel his warmth, wanting to hear his heartbeat, wanting to smell the scent of his cologne that lingered and tell herself that everything was going to be fine from here on out, that Hannibal would protect her from anything and everything wishing her harm because he _loved_ her...

 

“I told you,” he resumed, “that I would never abandon you. But now that we'll be bringing a child into the world, I see how important it is that you and the baby are protected from whatever harm might occur.” He kissed her gently.

 

“What do you mean?” she asked Hannibal.

 

He stroked her hair and held her close. “I may need to do some things that you don't like,” he explained, whispering into her ear. “But whatever they are, know that I did them for you and for the baby.”

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

Playlist:

 _Numb,_  Marina and the Diamonds

 _Black Doe,_  Mary Epworth

 _Comme des Enfants,_ Coeur de Pirate

 _Precious Things,_  Tori Amos

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Hannibal,_ but all original characters are mine.**

**Chapter Thirteen**

Victoria awakened early Sunday morning with a feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach.

She would have to tell her mother today and tell her not only about the engagement, but also the pregnancy.

She could already hear her mother's disappointed sigh, and then Claire would remonstrate with her about how she and Hannibal were making the same mistake of getting married in a shotgun wedding because of an unplanned pregnancy. But there was a difference: Victoria was thirty-one and not twenty-three, and she and Hannibal had been together for a little over five years. Moreover,  _he_  had wanted this as much as she had. He was thrilled at the prospect of becoming a father, even at this point in his life.

She picked up her cell phone and glanced at the time. Four forty-five. With a sigh of annoyance, she set her phone back down and reached underneath the bed for her laptop. She had been looking at cribs for a few minutes when she heard him stir.

"You can't sleep, Victoria?" he murmured, sitting up and turning on the light on his bedside table.

"No. I'm sorry if I woke you up," she apologized, but he shook his head, a smile playing on his lips.

"Don't be sorry, Victoria." She felt him bury his lips in her hair. "What keeps you awake?"

"Telling my mom...about us, about the baby." She felt his lips descend to her neck, and she closed her eyes and shivered with pleasure when she felt them at the juncture of her neck and shoulder.

"Your mother will only be delighted that you're starting your own family...with me," he said.

And Victoria knew that was true. Claire did like Hannibal. "He's good for you," her mother had told her once. "It's easy to see how much he loves you and how much you love him."

If only her mother really knew.

"Are you going back to sleep?" she asked him, leaning her forehead against his cheek. She wanted him desperately just now, and she placed a lingering kiss on his mouth to give him an indication of what she was interested in doing.

"You don't seem very interested in going back to sleep," he observed once she had pulled away. "And neither am I." He took her hand into his and placed it on his crotch so that she could feel his growing arousal. "But tell me," he said before nibbling on her earlobe, "what you'd like to do instead."

She felt his tongue on the shell of her ear, and desire for him thrummed in her veins. "I want to fuck you," she replied, throwing aside the sheets and moving over to straddle his lap so she could kiss him.

"I never thought I would hear such language out of you, Victoria," he admonished her mockingly in between kisses. "You're very naughty. What are we going to do about that?"

She laughed and kissed him deeply, letting her teeth graze his lower lip as she broke the kiss. "Well, I never said anything about you  _not_ fucking me right back," she chided, gasping as he reached under her shirt with both hands and fondled her breasts, as his deft fingers brushed over her nipples, making them tighten and harden. She ground against his erection, and he moaned and crushed his lips against hers once again. She took hold of the hem of his shirt and tugged at it, and he raised his arms over his head so that she could take it off of him.

Teasingly she grasped him through his pajama pants, letting her free hand wander over his chest. She heard his breath hitch and he growled into her kiss. "You said," he reminded her, taking her hands into his and kissing them, "that I would have my turn, too."

She rolled off of him and lie down on her side of the bed, a mock pout on her face as she looked up at him. "Then have your way with me, Hannibal," she invited, and he bent to kiss her, his hands wandering to all of the right places, making her want him even more. He helped her out of her pajamas and flung them behind him. For a moment, he sat there, drinking in the sight of her lying in his bed wantonly and with her lips swollen from kissing. She wondered what he was thinking behind that mask of impassivity.

"What is it, Hannibal?" she asked him, and he leaned down to plant a kiss on her forehead.

"I'm thinking," he answered, "of how beautiful you are." He kissed her full on the mouth again, and she felt his mouth on her breasts and then on her stomach where the baby was growing. His fingers lightly brushed her skin as they traveled down toward her sex, and she whimpered and arched her hips toward him when they found her clit. He slipped two fingers within her, listening to her moans and sighs, watching her face as he touched her.

"Hannibal," she gasped, "stop teasing. I want you...please. I want you."

"Now?" He removed his fingers, licking them thoughtfully.

"Now!"

She helped him remove his pajama pants, and she lowered herself onto him while he sat on the edge of the bed. "You feel so good inside of me," she breathed as he pressed his forehead against hers.

"Victoria." He kissed her quickly, placing his hands on her hips so he could move with her. "Do you love me?"

He often asked this during sex, and her response was always the same. "Yes, Hannibal. Yes, I love you...so, so much..."

There was a ghost of a smile, and then he said, "I want to be on top of you."

She pulled away from him, then lie down on the bed. He covered her body with his own, and she laughed when he licked the sweat from her shoulder before entering her. She wrapped her legs around him, and she felt his hands on the backs of her thighs, lifting her hips so he could thrust more deeply. She tangled her hands in his hair, looked deeply into his eyes.

She loved him. Dear God, she loved him, she had always loved him. He had given her everything she had ever wanted and more, and if she asked for the moon, she was certain he would find some way to obtain it for her...

"I would never abandon you, Victoria," he said through ragged breaths.

"I know," she moaned.

"You've made me very happy. I never thought I would see such happiness."

"I love you, Hannibal," she cried out before her orgasm washed over her.

"I know you do, Victoria. I know you do. And I promise you..."

"What? What do you promise?"

He thrust a few more times as he finished, as he emptied himself into her. "I promise," he said, his chest heaving, "that I'll give you everything you could ever want."

"Hannibal." She kissed him. "You  _have_  done that for me, so many times over."

He pulled out of her. "Then let me do it again," he said.

She felt her heart almost burst, it was so heavy with love for him. A few tears spilled from her eyes, and she pressed her lips together, brushing his hair back from his face. Even if he couldn't love her, he knew that he could make her happy. And that was all she wanted.

* * *

"You're pregnant?" Claire Sawyer Halloran didn't sound disappointed. More like astonished. "Victoria, I thought you would know better by now."

"Well, I thought I would, too," Victoria said, rolling her eyes. "But it's happened. Hannibal and I have been talking about getting married for a few months, and...Mom, this is what I want. Hannibal and I love each other, and I  _know_  that he'll be a good father in addition to being a good husband."

The words  _This is what I want_ seemed to be what convinced Claire that somehow, this was all for the best.

"We'll be there, in December. Your sisters will be so happy, Victoria. They love you so much, and they love Hannibal so much. And a niece or a nephew...Victoria, this is my my first grandchild! Of course I'm excited!"

Of course they loved Hannibal. Everyone loved Hannibal.

She still would feel her heart stop and her breath hitch when she would enter his study and would find him going through his books. Just like now.

"You spoke to your mother?" he asked her, descending the ladder that led to the shelves of texts.

"She's thrilled," she told him, and a smirk crossed his lips. "They love you, Hannibal. Everyone loves you."

"And you love me the most?"

"Yes. Out of everyone who could possibly love you, I love you the most."

* * *

"She's rather manipulative," Alana warned Victoria as they walked through the hallways of the Port Haven psychiatric hospital the next Tuesday. "But then, since you're not a psychiatrist or an investigator, she might talk to you. And it might be easier for you, since your sister is about her age."

"I've dealt with girls like her. She's probably in shock, terrified." Victoria swallowed and blinked back her tears. "I was in shock. Terrified. I didn't even want to talk to my mom because I was so angry that she hadn't really been supportive—not once. Hannibal had to be the go-between and coaxed me to let her come into my room."

"Victoria, what happened to you is completely different from what happened to Abigail," Alana told her soberly. "You had your parents and Hannibal. Abigail doesn't have that luxury."

"Well, she'll have it with me," Victoria declared. "With me, she'll have someone."

* * *

"Abigail, this is Victoria Landry," Alana said gently to the girl seated on her bed. "She's here to help you with anything else you might need, anything else that Dr. Lecter and I can't help you with."

"You mean Dr. Lecter's fiancee?" Abigail looked up from the book she was reading, setting it aside. "Dr. Lecter told me about you the other day," she said, addressing Victoria. She got up from the bed and took a few steps toward the two women. "Hi."

"Hi," Victoria said, holding out her hand so Abigail could shake it. "It's nice to meet you."

"Same here," Abigail replied, her eyes not leaving Victoria's face.

Alana forced a smile. "I'll leave you both alone to get acquainted," she informed them before she exited the room. Victoria unbuttoned her peacoat and took off her scarf, draping them in the one of the chairs. It was a cheerful enough room, she supposed, like an open attic room in a Victorian house, complete with the wallpaper. It was only the starkness of the bed—much like a hospital bed—that reminded Victoria that this was a psychiatric facilty.

"I brought you some books," Victoria said, reaching for the small shopping bag she had brought with her and handing them to Abigail. "I wasn't sure if there was anything decent for you to read here. When I was in a hospital like this for a few weeks I read a lot."

"Was that when you shot your stalker?" Abigail asked curiously as she pulled out the books.

"No. When I was nineteen I tried to kill myself and ended up in a hospital like this for a few weeks during the summer." Victoria steeled herself and sat down beside Abigail. "I wasn't much older than you."

Abigail pushed some her glossy brown hair back behind her ear. "Why did you try to kill yourself?"

"I was going through a major depressive episode. I tried to tell my mom something was wrong, but she blew me off. Six months later I ended up overdosing on aspirin and in the ICU for three days. From there, I went to a hospital like this one in northern California, in the mountains. I put myself back together as best as I could, and life went on."

"But you were still being stalked." Abigail contemplated  _Watership Down_.

"That one is really good. I liked Fiver the best." Victoria took out  _The Night Circus_ and  _The Flight of Gemma Hardy._ "You'll like these, too."

Abigail looked up at Victoria with bright blue eyes. "So you  _bought_  all of these for me?"

"Is there something wrong with that? Dr. Bloom bought some clothes and things for you," Victoria reminded Abigail. "Anway, reading is a good way to escape the things troubling you."

"Because it's a good way for you?" Abigail said, pulling out Antonia Fraser's biography on Marie Antoinette and a finished version of Wharton's _The Buccaneers._

"Yes," Victoria admitted. "Look, I even picked up  _The Chronicles of Narnia_  for you."

Abigail made a face. "I read these when I was little. You're—you're kind of a nerd." Here she smiled. "But I'd like to read them again. Thank you."

Victoria helped her put the books back into the bag and watched as she tucked the bag under her bed. "So are you going to ask me any questions like everyone else does?" Abigail said when she faced Victoria again. "And are you going to tell them everything I say?"

"Who's them?" Victoria asked Abigail, her brow wrinkling.

"You  _know._ Jack Crawford, Dr. Bloom, Dr. Lecter, Will Graham. Especially Dr. Lecter." Abigail straightened, her brows knitting. "You'd probably tell him everything."

Well. So here was the penchant for manipulation coming out. Victoria crossed her arms and regarded Abigail coolly. "I'm not here for  _them._ I'm here for  _you_. I'm a victim's advocate, and technically speaking, you're a victim. I'm here to help you figure out where you need to go from here. If you want a lawyer, I can find one for you. And whatever you tell me will remain between us, unless it shows you're a danger to yourself. It sounds like you've known some really shitty people in your life, and I'm sorry about that."

Abigail lifted her chin defiantly, her lips quirking a bit. "So what you're saying is that you're not going to operate like one of those shitty people?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying," Victoria said. As an afterthought, she added, "And Dr. Lecter doesn't operate like that, either."

"I think they feel guilty, in a way...him and Will Graham. About my dad." Abigail watched as Victoria sat down in the chair nearest to the bed. "Does he say anything about it?"

"Who?"

"Dr. Lecter."

Victoria shook her head. "He hasn't said anything about it. But we don't talk about his work all that much."

"But you've met Will Graham. And he and Dr. Bloom had dinner at your— _his—_ house this weekend. Dr. Lecter mentioned it yesterday."

"We did. But Hannibal has all kinds of people over for dinner."

"Do you like Will Graham?"

This irritated Victoria a little bit. "I don't have anything negative to say about Will Graham," she said quickly, and Abigail's face fell. The girl grew contemplative after some moments.

"I wonder," she said, "how it felt when he killed my dad. How he felt. Do you ever wonder how it feels to kill someone?"

"That's a really morbid question." Every fiber of Victoria's being screamed for a Xanax. "And no, I  _don't_  wonder what it's like to kill someone."

_Because I already know._

"Anyhow," Victoria resumed, getting up and reaching for her purse, "you seem like you're bored out of your mind here and it makes you think of things like that. There's all sorts of stuff to do between here and Washington, D.C. If you'd like, I could talk to Dr. Lecter and Dr. Bloom about taking you to some of these places."

Abigail seemed to smile a bit. "Yeah, I would like that. Who'd be taking me? You and Dr. Lecter?"

"Or Dr. Bloom. Or just me. If that's okay with you."

"It's fine with me," Abigail insisted. "You're probably the only person I've had a normal conversation with since all of this happened."

"I don't think every part of it was normal, Abigail," Victoria said lightly, "but it was a start."

"I guess. But thanks."

"Thanks for what?"

"Thanks for not being a shitty person."


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Hannibal, but all original characters are mine.

"She wants to go back to Minnesota?" Victoria said as Hannibal parked the car in the lot of the grocery store he normally shopped at.

He regarded her nonchalantly as he turned off the engine. "It's so that she can retrace her steps, so that she eventually remembers what happened. I've been asked to travel with Alana and Jack Crawford. And Will Graham." He paused for a moment, staring out the windshield in front of him contemplatively. "Abigail would like you to come, too. She told Will Graham and me that she liked you and that she felt comfortable with you."

Victoria sighed. "Hannibal, I can't. You know I can't. Work..."

He eyed her levelly, reaching across the console to take her hand. "You and I both know that you can work remotely from your laptop," he cajoled. "They will be understanding. You took Abigail on as your own little project. It would only be right for you to accompany her to Minnesota so that she would have someone else who can be supportive of her. You can help her process what she went through. It will only give your father's foundation positive press." He squeezed her hand, then let go of it. "Your presence will also ensure that certain members of the press keep their distance."

"How? By having me put on my super bitchface?" Victoria unbuckled her seatbelt, reaching for her purse.

"Your super bitchface is very intimidating," he told her, smiling infinitesimally. She got out of the car and went with him into the store, where she got a cart while he went to take a look at what was available in the produce section. He was the sort of man who planned what he would cook during the week ahead of time down to the smallest detail, taking into account how the flavors matched and complemented each other.

"Cheese," she said incongruously, her eyes widening once they got to the deli section.

"What kind would you like?"

"Boursin or Camembert. With rye crackers. Or Triscuits—the cracked pepper kind."

"Then get as much as you'd like." Yes, this was Hannibal, who always indulged her, who might tease her about eating something that he hadn't made, but who never pressured her about food or weight as her mother always had when she'd been growing up. But then, it was always, Get whatever you'd like. Or, Would you like this? I would like to try this.

"Gelato?" he suggested.

"Sorbet. Lemon."

She saw his lips pucker and then curve into a smile. "You never cease to surprise me, Victoria."

"I guess if I keep surpising you, you'll never be bored," she said, and he stepped to her side and bent to kiss her briefly on the mouth.

"Whatever makes you think I'd grow bored of you?" he asked her, his eyes gleaming.

She wanted to cry then, but she didn't.

Instead, she saw the smile fade from his face.

Across from the frozen food aisle, near the deli, stood the patient named Franklyn Froideveaux, the one who had been so determined to contact Hannibal during his last trip to Minnesota.

"Ignore him," Hannibal whispered, placing his hand on her shoulder. "I'm sure his presence here is nothing more than a coincidence."

"Hannibal," she intoned, fear making her voice quaver, "what if it isn't?"

He kissed her on the forehead. "If it isn't, rest assured that it will be taken care of. Didn't I promise that I would never let anyone hurt you again?"

"Yes, yes, you did." She continued down the aisle with him toward the checkout lanes. His stride was casual, measured, as though he were enjoying the simple ritual of grocery shopping with her and had never seen Franklyn.

"I'll always keep that promise to you," he said softly. "Always remember that."

She helped him empty the groceries onto the conveyor, and she picked out a few bridal magazines that had been placed on the display rack close to the counter. Hannibal smiled when he saw these. With a quick, deft motion he removed his sleek, expensive leather wallet from the inner pocket of his suit jacket and produced his debit card to pay for everything.

He was playing the part of a man hopelessly in love, the knight in shining armor who had taken the melancholy Ophelia away with him to live in his castle and reign as his queen, forever.

"I can pay for it, you know. My groceries," she told him as they loaded the bags into the back seat of his car. When he looked at her perplexedly, she continued. "It's not that I don't appreciate it, Hannibal. I appreciate everything you do for me. I just like being able to pay for my own things. I can afford it..."

"Of course you can," he said. "But sometimes I enjoy doing these things for you. You're going to be my wife, after all. Indulge my whims now and again."

She let him kiss her briefly on the mouth.

When she turned her head to put her seatbelt back on, she caught Franklyn out of the corner of her eye as he stood at the exit of the grocery store.

The kiss, the touches, the measured strides, the pride with which he had pulled out that debit card to pay for her groceries.

She waited until they were in her apartment and he had begun to prepare the pork loin for that night's dinner. She tore into the rye crackers and spread some of the Boursin on them.

"Are you going to allow me to have any?" he asked her with that tone—that tone. That tone that meant he was hiding something beneath that polished, serene exterior. Not that he didn't hide a lot of things, but this was too much.

"I'll put some on a plate for you," she offered, going to the cabinet to get a plate out.

"Victoria, do you really think that I'll be eating them while I'm preparing the pork loin? You're forgetting about how much they caution about cross-contamination."

"You can wash your hands."

"I would like my dinner at a decent hour, Victoria. I'm sure you would, too, without the cook falling ill."

She rolled her eyes and took the plate over to him, picking up one of the rye crackers with cheese and holding it out for him, close to his mouth. He took a bite out of it, chewing thoughtfully, and he nodded in satisfaction once he had swallowed it. "A wonderful idea for an hors d'oeuvre." She let him finish it, relishing the brief brush of his lips against her fingers. This was how it all had begun, the seduction with food and laughter and talk and touches and kissing, and hours spent on the futon in her spare room or on the bed of his guest room and once on the chaise longue in his study making out. This was how he had done it, building her a castle, making her feel secure, helping her to open up to him petal by petal until the twisting in her stomach went away when he reached down to touch her. He had asked her if she trusted him, if he could touch her center, if he could even go down on her, seeking her approval, seeking her consent before each act.

"You're angry with me," he guessed, the slight smile disappearing from his lips, his cheeks losing some of their roundness.

"I'm not angry, Hannibal," she said, opening up the refrigerator to get out the bottle of Riesling they had yet to finish. "I just...I worry, Hannibal. You shouldn't bait Franklyn. You should just send him to another psychiatrist and tell him if he bothers you again, you'll go to the police."

"I'm not baiting him, Victoria," he contradicted, washing his hands before putting the pork loin in the oven. "I'm only showing him that I have my own life outside of our sessions together and outside of my practice. I'm perfectly happy with the life I have chosen and the woman I am going to be spending it with." He set to making the smashed red potatoes next, and took out the ingredients for the green beans amandine.

"It's not that, Hannibal," she retored, emphasizing her point by quickly cutting one of the apples he was planning to bake in half.

"I'd like to know what it is, then, Victoria." He was careful to say her name after that, too.

"What does he know about me—about us?"

"I haven't said much that he doesn't already know from the media, only that while we do have friends, we are both very private people and prefer to spend our time quietly together."

"Hannibal, with the public displays of affection and the way you took out your debit card to pay for my food, you were basically saying, 'Look at me. This is what I have. This is the life I've chosen for myself.' You remember what happened the last time you did this..."

"You were a very willing participant in all of it, my dear."

"But this is different. Hannibal, Robert McCarren threatened us. He wouldn't back off. He was very graphic about what he was going to do to me in front of you. We had to do what we did."

"And if Franklyn threatens you, or our child, what then?"

"Hannibal."

"The world is a cold, cruel place, Victoria. Having you in it makes it seem sweeter."

"Why do you do this, Hannibal? Why do you have to be so cruel?"

"For may reasons. One of them being curiosity."

"The other?"

"The other?" He delicately sipped at his wine, placing the glass gently on the counter. "To preserve the life I have, the life I will make for all of us."

"You're not giving me a say in it."

"You said that this was what you wanted." He stopped mashing the potatoes, the muscles and tendons in his arms flexing.

"Not like this."

"You said you wanted me. You said you wanted what I could give you. You said that you wanted a family. Have you changed your mind?"

He wasn't angry; he was perplexed. He kept it hidden so well, but really, there was no way he could understand her at all.

"No, I haven't," she said, going to his side. "I love you. I want you. I want this baby and what we have."

He wiped his hands, kissing her on the forehead. "Then trust me," he murmured.

March, 2010.

The first time McCarren laid eyes on Hannibal before the parole hearing, he had sneered at him and called him a fag. Victoria felt Hannibal's fingers tighten around her own, felt him move closer to her, all while he eyed McCarren steadily.

"You're very rude, Mr. McCarren," Hannibal cautioned lightly. "You should be more careful of what you say. It could be the death of you."

Victoria had to bite the insides of her cheeks to keep from chuckling. Instead, she played the frightened survivor and buried her face into Hannibal's shoulder, inhaling the smell of his French cologne as a means to ground herself.

"I'm going to take his tongue for sure," Hannibal told her as he had brought her a glass of wine before they'd gone to bed that night. "The loins. The liver. Intestine for sausages. Some parts of the shoulders and legs. The heart."

"You have recipes for heart?"

"I have many recipes for heart." He put down his wine glass when she'd come to him. She ran her fingers up and down his side, feeling the warmth of skin and the suppleness of muscle under the silk of his shirt. He kissed the tip of her nose. "And ribs, if you'd like. I have a certain spice rub I use for pork loin and ribs, one that I made up myself."

"I just want to strike the fatal blow," she said. "I want to see the life leave his eyes and know that our faces are the last things he'll ever see before he goes to hell."

He ran his thumb over her bottom lip, and that was the first time she saw that grin. The way his lips pulled back, showing those perfectly white, well-maintained canines. She pulled his hand away. He gazed down at her, his breath still even, as though he was waiting.

"Do you want to?" she asked him. "Here?" She stepped away from him, backing to the desk, her hand lightly touching it. "Or there?" She gestured to the carpet in front of the fireplace.

She didn't have to ask him a fourth time. He strode across the room and took her into his arms with a roughness he had never shown but that she found thrilling. When he kissed her his tooth caught on her lip, drawing blood. He paused to wipe it away from her lips.

"Do you love me, Victoria?" he asked her, staring down at her with eyes that burned with lust not only for her, but for the possibility of what else they could do together, of what they might have once the man who had always haunted her footsteps was gone.

"You know I do," she replied, and he bent to kiss her again.

He was rough with her and she liked it.

Yes, he was passionate with her, but it was controlled, not frenzied. He wanted to be rough with her, but he wanted her to enjoy it and not be frightened by it. He still asked before doing something—Hannibal's politeness didn't even fail him during sex—and she loved him for that.

Before he had finished, they had made it to the chaise, where Victoria's limbs went slack after her third orgasm. He never liked finishing from behind with her, she'd noticed; he always liked to see her face in those final moments of bliss when it almost seemed like they laid claim on each other.

He didn't love her like she loved him. Because he couldn't.

But it seemed that he wanted to.

When he lifted his head from her chest moments after he had come, she cupped either side of his face in her hands. She felt him pull out of her, but he made no move to sit up to remove the condom just yet. His brows knitted curiously. "What is it?" he asked her.

She smiled up at him wanly. "Nothing," she said, kissing him on the forehead before releasing him.

"You know that when he's paroled, he won't leave you alone," Hannibal said as she lie down beside him that night. "Not until he accomplishes what he first set out to do. Once he has done that, he will move on to another young woman, most likely not one as resilient as yourself."

"He needs to die. He can't be allowed to do this to someone else. I won't allow him to do this to someone else," Victoria declared. She felt Hannibal's arms around her, and he kissed the top of her head.

"Which is why we must plan and act. And why you must trust me. Once this is over, you'll never have to worry about him again."

She rolled over so that she could face him. "And what'll it be like, then, for us after that, since like you I'd have killed someone?"

"Who can say?" he replied, his lips curving upward into a smile. "Your life with me will be whatever you make of it, won't it, Victoria?"

"But I want a life with you. I know that now. I spent all that time looking over my shoulder, scared, or nights locked in my apartment when I should have been out doing what I wanted to do. So much of what I did or didn't do in my life was because of my fear of him and fear of what he might do." She felt tears prick her eyes. "I was so alone. But then you...You've helped me make up for lost time, Hannibal. So much of it."

He wiped away one of her tears with a gentle finger. "Neither one of us is alone in this world anymore. We have each other."

"You were alone, then, before you met me?" she asked him.

"I was," he admitted, the lines around his mouth deepening with his frown. "But now I have you. And you've done just as much for me. I love you for that, Victoria."

But she knew he didn't mean it.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Hannibal, but all original characters are mine.

"She wants you to go to Minnesota with her?" Jeannette Ryan repeated after Victoria had told her about what Hannibal had proposed the following morning.

"Hannibal—Dr. Lecter, that is—and Dr. Alana Bloom both think that it would be beneficial for her if someone who wasn't involved with the investigation and who hadn't been there when her father was killed were there with her. As a sort of sounding board."

Jeannette sighed heavily, leaning back in her chair. "What does the FBI say about this?"

"They're okay with it." Jack Crawford hadn't been thrilled with it at first; he believed that Abigail was manipulating the situation and that it wasn't in the best interest of the investigation to have Victoria around. It had been Alana who had pointed out that man who had shot her father and the man who had saved her life weren't the best people to have around, either, and Jack had capitulated. The Landry Foundation would cover Victoria's expenses; Jeannette would make sure of that.

"You've always been a fighter for the women we help, Victoria, but in this instance, you have to be careful. The Hobbs case is very much in the media spotlight right now. Abigail is not only a victim and a material witness, but she also could be an accessory to the murders."

Which was what countless other people had said. "I'm pretty media savvy, if you don't remember, Jeannette. And I have Hannibal."

Jeannette's lips quirked into a sort of smile. "Of course. Hannibal is very savvy in the ways of things like this, isn't he?"

"Very much so." You don't know how much.

Jeannette nodded, but still her face was lined with concern. "I'm going to warn you about this, Victoria, because I'm not sure anyone else has. Tamille thinks you're overly protective of this girl. Not that I can blame you. You have sisters her age, and of course there's your own experience…Don't get too attached, Victoria."

"Why are you warning me about that?" Victoria said edgily, straightening in her chair. "She doesn't have anyone now, Jeannette, and she needs someone to look out for her. You know I've done that for so many girls and women who need it. Why is Abigail an exception?"

"She has, it seems, three other people who are looking out for her interests, one of them being the man you're engaged to. And I know you have good intentions, Victoria, but please pay attention to my advice. It's only for your own good. Don't set yourself up for heartache and disappointment if it turns out Abigail Hobbs was more involved with her father's murders than you thought."

Victoria pursed her lips. Jeannette was right, to a point. But she was also wrong.

"I'll take your advice, and I'll let you know if Hannibal—Dr. Lecter, that is—suspects anything. Whatever advice he has to offer, I'll follow. Along with yours."

Jeannette seemed to relax, but she also seemed to be a little ruffled at Victoria's passive-aggressive jibe. "Good. Dr. Lecter tends to offer good guidance. I know you'll follow it without question."

So Jeannette had responded with a jibe of her own.

Victoria smiled as sweetly as she could. "Oh, trust me, Jeannette," she promised, "I will."

It was no use complaining to Hannibal about it. There were—and always had been—some tensions between Victoria and Jeannette. It was very well-known that Jeannette thought that Victoria was a spoiled little brat who was only attached to the nonprofit because it was her father's name and her father's money. Victoria, on the other hand, thought that Jeannette was a pretentious bitch.

But they could work together. Because that was what motherfucking adults did.

"Starbucks?" Abigail exclaimed when Victoria dropped by the psychiatric hospital after work. "Are they even going to let you take me out?"

"Dr. Bloom and Dr. Lecter have cleared it. And I'm engaged to Dr. Lecter, so that means a lot. It's good for you to get out, and we can talk about anything you want."

Abigail seemed pleased to be able to leave the facility. She seemed enthralled by Victoria's car,  
Victoria's IPod playlist, even Victoria's purse.

"Vera Bradley. The pattern is called Baroque. It's my favorite. I even have the wallet in that pattern."

"I've heard of her. Does she have other patterns?"

"Tons."

"It has black and gray. You wear a lot of those colors. So it fits you." Abigail handed Victoria her purse once they had pulled into the Starbucks parking lot.

"If you want, we can go one day and you can pick a purse out," Victoria offered. Why did I offer that?

"Thanks," Abigail said as they walked into the coffee shop. "I'll think about it."

"Get whatever you want," Victoria entreated, and Abigail chose a salted caramel latte. Victoria played it safe with hot chocolate. They chose a table in the corner. Abigail sipped her latte nervously.

"I'm glad you're coming to Minnesota with us," Abigail began, toying with the cardboard sleeve around the cup. "There's still so much I don't remember. Maybe…maybe you can help me."

"I don't see how I could help you remember," Victoria told Abigail. "I wasn't there. But I'll be there to help you through the process."

"Like I said before, you're the only person who doesn't treat me like I'm broken or I'm some kind of freak. Will Graham—he treats me like I'm broken and I'm about ready to break even more."

"He feels guilty about what happened. But in the end, he saved your life. So that's a good thing that came out of it."

"Is it a good thing?" Abigail said, looking up at Victoria and biting her lip. "Everyone thinks I have all these answers when I don't. Everyone thinks I was involved. But I wasn't. That I knew—but I didn't."

"Oh, sweetheart!" Victoria felt as though her heart would break for this girl. "It's going to be tough for awhile. But you'll come out of it okay. You have Dr. Bloom and Dr. Lecter…and me. We can even get you a lawyer if you want. Whatever has happened, it's all going to be okay."

"You think so?"

"I know so."

Abigail smiled wanly, glancing out the window at the darkening sky. They spent the rest of the time in tentative, yet slightly comfortable, silence.

"Do you want to discuss the aftermath of the break-in and sexual assault and how you met Hannibal?" Dr. du Maurier asked Victoria.

Victoria tilted her head. "Why do you want to start with that today?"

"Hannibal and I discussed it yesterday. I thought it would be a good way to start today's session with you."

"There's nothing to discuss that we haven't discussed before."

"But there might be some things that we haven't touched on. Feelings, emotions, realizations."

"I thought he was a pompous ass at first." Victoria chuckled at the thought. "But then the next time I saw him, he apologized for being rude. He brought me some brioche and a coffee from Starbucks. My mom's whole solution to the thing was to fly me out to California for a week and take me shopping. Hannibal only wanted to help me through it. And he has. He was ethical about it when he told me how he felt about me."

"And when Robert McCarren was released from jail and threatened you—and Hannibal—did you think he was going to carry those threats out?"

"Of course I did. But this time, I had Hannibal. Hannibal offered to help him, because Robert McCarren was clearly mentally ill, but McCarren didn't want it. It was a blessing when McCarren finally went away." Her voice quavered. Dr. du Maurier handed her a tissue. "I—I'm sorry," Victoria apologized. "It's…when I think about what he might have done to me, what he might have done to Hannibal…"

What we did to him.

"It's understandable," Dr. du Maurier said softly. "Hannibal is a much stronger person than you and I think, though."

Victoria eyed Dr. du Maurier curiously. "What do you mean, you think?"

"Hannibal has been my patient for a much longer period of time than the duration of his relationship with you," Dr. du Maurier explained quietly. "I'd like to think we both know him quite well by now."

"I'm sure we both do," Victoria said, managing a wan smile.

But there was so much that Dr. du Maurier didn't know.

Victoria spent a quiet weekend with Hannibal. She found a few wedding dresses she liked and was able to make some appointments for the following weekend. She and Hannibal also decided on the small chapel where they wished their wedding to take place, and he was able to book a banquet room for their small reception dinner at one of his favorite local restaurants.

It was, in short, a productive Saturday, she thought as she sat down beside him at dinner. "You've outdone yourself again," she told him, leaning over to kiss him. "Is this how it's going to be with you every night once we're married? I'll come home and you'll have dinner ready on the table?"

"Even if you choose not to return to work after you have the baby, Victoria, I'll always have dinner ready on the table for you." He put down his wine glass and tucked into his meal. "Have you thought about whether or not you'll be returning to work?"

"I wanted to get through the wedding first. And then getting ready for the baby. And then actually having the baby. Speaking of which, I made a doctor's appointment for next week…"

"I'll be there if you'd like."

"You don't have to. It's just the normal new-patient visit with the obstetrician. I'll want you there for other appointments, though."

"All you'll need to do is tell me when it is and I'll arrange to be there." He topped off her glass of water for her and put down the carafe. "As for whether or not you wish to return to work after the baby is born, that's entirely your decision. Financially, we're in a position that you won't need to."

"Thank you, Hannibal. That means a lot."

He smiled infinitesimally. "I'm sure it does," he replied, and then he returned his attention to his dinner.

"I'm reading The Flight of Gemma Hardy right now. I really like it," Abigail said to Victoria as they sat in the back of the SUV on the way to the Hobbs house in Minnesota. "Now I want to reread Jane Eyre when I'm done."

"Victoria always has the best taste in books," Alana told Abigail. "I always ask for her gift ideas around Christmas."

"Do you ever ask for ideas for yourself?" Abigail quipped, turning to face Alana. "You know, so you can use those gift cards that've been piling up?"

Alana's brows knitted for a moment. Abigail must have said something that cut deep.

"Abigail," Victoria said, trying to keep her tone crisp even though she felt nauseous, "that wasn't nice. At all."

Abigail's clear blue eyes widened just a bit. "You're right," she said. "Sorry, Dr. Bloom."

Victoria closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the seat. She hadn't expected that morning sickness could be so vile. Of course Hannibal had thought to be prepared, tucking Tums, ginger chews¸ and Bonine into her suitcase, but still the plane ride had been difficult.

Victoria scrabbled out of the car behind Alana, and her stomach twisted even more when she saw what was spray-painted on the front and garage doors.

Cannibals.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Hannibal, but all original characters are mine.

There was a pool of dried blood on the doorstep where Abigail's mother had died.

"My mom died there?" Abigail reached for Victoria's hand.

"I—I don't know. Ask Will Graham," Victoria stammered.

"Are you okay? You look like you're going to be sick."

"I'll be fine."

Abigail let go of Victoria's hand and followed Will Graham into the house. Victoria tuned out their conversation, discreetly reaching into her purse for her bottle of Xanax and taking one.

When she walked into the house, though, the coppery tang of blood mixed with the smell of the cleaner made her stomach roil.

Then there were the deer heads mounted on the wall.

"Bathroom," Victoria said quickly to Abigail as her gorge rose. "I need a bathroom."

"Go down the hallway, second door on the left," Abigail said, and Victoria hurried to it. She barely reached the toilet in time before she heaved her entire lunch and the Xanax into it. She heard the click of Hannibal's heels on the tile as he entered the bathroom. He tore some pieces from the toilet paper roll and gently wiped her mouth when she fell against him.

"An upset stomach?" he guessed, yet there was no glint of concern in his eyes.

"I think so. I think it's the baby."

Hannibal tutted, kissing her on the temple. "Do you want to go back to the hotel? If Abigail needs anything, she can talk to you when she returns."

"I'd like to go back to the hotel, if you don't mind," Victoria said, getting up. She let Hannibal lead her to the couch in the living room. She lay down upon it while he went to speak with Jack Crawford and the local police chief about getting someone to drive her back to the hotel.

She closed her eyes. The blood on the doorstep. Oh, God, the blood on the doorstep.

Just like the blood on the wall of her apartment from when McCarren had knocked her head against it.

Just like all of the blood on the dropcloth-covered basement floor of Hannibal's cottage where McCarren breathed his last.

"How about you be my mom, you be my dad, and you be the man on the phone?" she heard Abigail suggest loudly, and her eyes snapped open.

"Ms. Landry," she heard the young police officer by her say quietly, "if you'll come with me, I'll give you a ride back to the hotel."

She sat up, running her hand through her mussed hair. "Sure," she said, bending down to get her purse. She stood up, and Hannibal's dark gaze met hers.

You be the man on the phone.

Victoria inhaled deeply, managing a smile. He smiled back at her wanly.

What did you do, Hannibal?

******

April, 2010.

Lou called her with the news.

Robert McCarren was getting out for good behavior. As part of the conditions of his parole, he was to continue with the psychiatric help he had been receiving in prison and he was to have no contact with Victoria.

She was cynical about that. She knew that somehow, he would try to contact her. When he did, she was to let Hannibal know.

She wondered what Hannibal was thinking of doing to McCarren, what would lie in store for him.

She didn't want to think about it.

Instead she focused on what else she was going to do with the money that her father had left in trust for philanthropic efforts.

And a Baltimore branch of the Landry Foundation seemed like the perfect way to use that money.

******

November, 2012.

"Dr. Lecter told me why you got sick," Abigail said to Victoria once Hannibal had brought her back to the hotel.

Victoria closed her laptop and sat upright on the bed. "What did he tell you?" she asked crisply. Abigail jumped at the abruptness of Victoria's tone.

"He told me it reminded you of what happened to you, and that was why you got sick. Post-traumatic stress."

Victoria relaxed. So he hadn't told Abigail about the pregnancy. "Do you think you have it?"

"Dr. Bloom says I might. But I don't think I do." Abigail squared her shoulders.

"I didn't think I did, either."

"What was it like, meeting him—Dr. Lecter—for the first time?" Abigail asked, moving from the chair to the edge of the bed.

"You really want to know?" Victoria said, picking up her cup of ginger ale.

"Yeah." Abigail seemed eager. She turned to face Victoria, sitting Indian style.

"At first I thought he was a pompous ass. He was so detached. But he had to be—he was assessing my mental state. I had a panic attack, and the next day he brought me a cheese Danish and a coffee from Starbucks to make up for it. He told me about how he was into fine cuisine and art and all of these wonderful things—things that I love, too—and it took off from there."

"Everyone was okay with it, you seeing your psychiatrist?"

"He stopped being my psychiatrist the moment he asked me out on a date," Victoria corrected, almost sharply. "He was very ethical about it, and I knew what I was getting into."

The hell I did.

"So now that I've told you something, why don't you tell me something?" Victoria prodded. Abigail's brow quirked at this.

"What do you want me to tell you?"

"Well, for starters, how did it feel to go back to your house?"

"Weird. Like it was all just some crazy dream, only it did happen. And then my friend Marissa came by. She told me…" Abigail licked her lips, then swept some of her dark hair back behind her ear.

"Abigail, it's okay. I'm not going to judge you or tell anyone. What did she say to you?"  
Abigail's blue eyes flicked away, and her lips began to quiver. "She—she said that everyone thinks I did it. That I was involved. But she doesn't think I was. Or she said she didn't, but it seemed like she thought I was…And then Nicholas Boyle…" The tears began to fall freely down Abigail's face. "He thinks I know about his sister. The girl who was found in the field. But I don't. I'm telling you, I don't!"

"Oh, sweetheart! It's okay!" Victoria set aside her laptop and took Abigail into her arms. Abigail buried her face into Victoria's shoulder. "Your dad did some horrible things, but you shouldn't have to pay for them. And not everyone understands that. But you're going to get through this. It will all be okay."

"Do you promise?"

"I promise."

"Abigail had a good talk with you?" Hannibal asked Victoria once the girl had left an hour later.

Victoria excitedly opened the container of chicken soup from the local deli and carefully spooned some into her mouth once she saw it was still steaming. "Yeah, she did."

"What did you two talk about?" he pursued as he started in on his own sandwich.

"I told her I wouldn't discuss it with anyone else, Hannibal."

"Jack Crawford is going to want to know what you two talked about, Victoria. Otherwise he'll think that bringing you along on this trip was a complete waste, and it won't only look bad for Alana Bloom, but for me."

Victoria sighed. "She knows that everyone thinks she had something to do with what her dad did."

"The murders."

"All right then, the murders that her dad committed. She might be a material witness, but she's also a victim. Her dad isn't here to pay for what he did, and she is. That's not fair. Hannibal, you know it's not fair…"

"Of course it's not fair. Which is why you're here." His lips twitched into a half-smile.

"I think she needs a lawyer."

"You do? Did you tell her this?"

"Not yet. But if Jack Crawford keeps playing bloodhound…It's killing her, Hannibal. He needs to back off and treat her as a witness, not as an accessory."

Hannibal opened up another bottle of Perrier for her. "I'll inform Jack Crawford of your concerns, as well as Alana. It might be best for Abigail to meet with your friend Tamille as you've suggested."

"Thank you." She reached across the table to take his hand. "I appreciate you doing this for me while I'm not feeling too well. You're truly wonderful, you know."

"Victoria." She felt his strong fingers around hers, fingers belonging to hands that brought her so much pleasure and conveyed such tenderness, created such beautiful things, and brought deadly violence down upon those whom he felt deserved it. "Tell me you love me."

She swallowed, tears pricking her eyes. "I love you, Hannibal."

She went to bed at nine. He took his laptop downstairs to the lobby with him so he could work and not disturb her.

The frantic knocking on her door was what woke her up. She stumbled out of bed, and when she saw it was Abigail, she opened the door.

The girl was shivering. "I'm sorry," she stuttered as Victoria brought her into the room. "I couldn't sleep. I had nightmares. Nightmares about my dad…"

"You couldn't tell Dr. Bloom?" Victoria yawned.

Abigail shook her head, brushing back strand of dark hair from her forehead. "She won't….I don't want to go back alone. I don't want to sleep alone. Can I stay here, with you?"

"No, because this is Dr. Lecter's room."

"Then will you come sleep in my room with me? Please?"

Victoria sighed, scrubbing her hand across her face. "I'm not feeling well, Abigail. Which is why I'm staying here and you're going back to your own room. " She climbed out of bed, going into the bathroom for the makeup case in which she kept her medicine. Abigail followed her. Victoria could see the expression of cool observation on the girl's face in the mirror's reflection as she took out a Xanax for Abigail.

"You're giving me pills?"

"Just for tonight. So you can sleep. It's Xanax—it helps me. Are you taking anything now?"

Abigail shook her head, staring down at the tiny white pill in her hand. "So will I be able to sleep?"

"It will calm you down so you can sleep." Victoria shooed Abigail out of the bathroom. "If you can't sleep, then talk to Dr. Bloom about it. She can prescribe something for you." She took a bottled water out of the twelve-pack Hannibal had bought for her earlier that day and handed it to Abigail. "You can take it here, if you want, but after that, you need to go back to your own room."

Abigail opened the bottle before putting the pill into her mouth, then took a swig and swallowed the water. "So is this going to be our secret? I don't think Dr. Bloom would be too happy about this."

Victoria felt a chill in the pit of her stomach. No, Alana wouldn't like that at all. Nor would Jack Crawford, nor would her boss. And Hannibal…

"Don't worry. I won't tell anyone. You're just being nice." Abigail smiled. "You felt bad for me because you've been where I am."

"That's some of it," Victoria said. "Now go to bed. It's going to be another long day tomorrow."

When Abigail left the room, Victoria locked the door and went back to bed, falling into a deep sleep. She was awakened at midnight by the sound of the shower running.

She sat up and turned on the light to see that Hannibal had returned, and that his discarded clothing had been folded neatly on one of the chairs. He was back, then.

She checked the clock on her Blackberry. It was past midnight.

In a few moments he emerged from the bathroom. "Did I wake you?" he asked her when he saw that she was sitting up in bed checking her email from her phone. "I apologize if I did."

"You did," Victoria replied as he came to bed beside her. She always loved the way he smelled and felt when he just came out of the shower. He let her wrap her arms around him and bury her face against his shoulder. She felt his hand on the small of her back, lightly, yet protectively. "Abigail came here wanting me to come back to her room with her. She keeps having nightmares. She doesn't want to sleep alone. She wanted to stay here, but I told her she couldn't."

"You sent her back to her room, then, I take it?" he said, closing his eyes.

"Yeah, I did. But I gave her a Xanax so she could sleep." She felt the muscles in Hannibal's shoulder tighten. "I probably shouldn't have…but…"

"Alana Bloom or I will prescribe something for her. There is no need to give her what you're taking," he said with contrived gentleness. "I know you want to help Abigail, but please refrain from giving her any of your medications again. You understand the ramifications of this if it ever got back to your superior or even to Alana, don't you?"

"Yes, Hannibal," Victoria whispered. She felt the brief press of his lips against hers.

"Then good night, Victoria." He moved out of her embrace and turned off the light.

"Good night, Hannibal," she murmured, turning away from him, though in a few moments she felt him move closer to her, and all seemed like it ought to be.

The nightmare came back to her unbidden, of that horrible night in her old apartment in Washington, D.C.

She was so dizzy, and her head hurt so much, and his hands were wandering to places that they should never be, and she heard him laugh and smelled his horrible cologne and deodorant and she struggled against him, pushing him away, screaming out. Nonononono.

And then there were arms, arms that cradled her, and the familiar shushing sound someone made when comforting a frightened woke up crying, and it was Hannibal who was holding her close, Hannibal who wiped her tears away, Hannibal who whispered soothing things into her ear, Hannibal who made her feel safe again. Even though really, he ought to be the last person anyone should feel safe with.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Hannibal, but all original characters are mine. Thanks for all of the reviews, favorites, and follows!
> 
> And I think this quote fits the relationship between Victoria and Hannibal:
> 
> "Koschei, Koschei," she whispered. "What would I have been if I had never seen the birds? I am no one; I am nothing. I am a blank paper on which you and your magic wrote a girl. Just the kind of girl you wanted, all hungry and hurt and needing. A machine for loving you. Nothing in me was not made by you."
> 
> ― Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless

A cabin in the woods.

Garrett Jacob Hobbs had done his work away from everyone else, in some stark, ramshackle little cabin in the middle of the woods.

Just like Hannibal's, almost, only Hannibal's cottage was much nicer…

The antlers, the doe's head hanging on the wall, the table where the deer carcasses had clearly been butchered.

And the smell of blood. Fresh blood. And the sound of Abigail's shriek.

Victoria hurried outside, pushing past the police officers, and fell to her knees as she threw up this morning's breakfast.

"You okay, Ms. Landry?" one of the younger officers ventured, offering her a Kleenex so that she could wipe her mouth.

"I'm fine," Victoria said as Hannibal came to her side and helped her to her feet. He drew her close to him, gripping her shoulders tightly.

"Don't go back into the cabin," he said quietly.

"Why? Why not?" she asked him, her blue eyes meeting his brown ones.

"Victoria, please trust me when I say it's for your own good. Another body was discovered there…Abigail's friend…"

"Marissa?"

"Yes, Victoria. It isn't a pretty sight. It would only upset you." He swept some of her hair out of her face with his hand, letting his fingers linger on the ends for just a moment.

The touch spoke volumes.

I don't want you to think of what we did that night. You might say something we would both regret.

"So you're protecting me, then?"

"I'm protecting both you and Abigail," he said mysteriously as he kissed her forehead briefly before Abigail and Alana approached.

April, 2010.

Just as Hannibal predicted, McCarren's behavior picked up just where it had left off.

There were no letters, no gifts, but McCarren had a nasty habit of showing up wherever Victoria and Hannibal might be. He even went so far as to lurk outside of Hannibal's office and home.

"Do I go to the police?" Victoria asked Hannibal nervously as she peered through the blinds in Hannibal's study one night to see McCarren there, watching.

"You will need to, eventually," Hannibal said blandly. "Or rather, go to your attorney and have him report it. And I will make an offer to him through my lawyer."

She felt the warmth of Hannibal's body against her back, and she relaxed when his hand found hers. "What kind of offer are you going to make?"

"I will offer to treat him."

"You said we'd kill him."

"Of course I did," he replied softly, burying his nose in her hair. "But it doesn't mean that there aren't certain formalities we must follow."

"I want him dead, Hannibal," she insisted, turning to face him. She let her fingers creep under the soft lapels of his coat, and she let her eyes meet his. "You promised, Hannibal. You promised we could kill him, that you would make him go away."

"And I will eventually deliver on that promise," he told her, leaning his forehead against hers. "But we must wait. We can't be haphazard about this, or we'll surely be caught. Follow my lead, Victoria, and this will happen, but it will take time."

She nodded. "I will."

"I knew you would. Now about dinner…" He took her by the hand and led her to the kitchen. He delegated certain tasks to her, like cutting up vegetables or getting things out of the refrigerator or pantry.

When she wasn't cutting something correctly, he would step behind her, placing his hands over hers, and show her. She loved this, the way his hands guided hers, the feel of him against her back, the smell of him, the way he consciously leaned over so that his cheek would rub against hers.

This time, it was tomatoes, how to cut them into a perfect rosette.

He asked her what it was she wanted, his breath hot against her ear, and she replied honestly.

"I want Robert McCarren dead, for what he did to me. For the years he stole from me."

"What else?"

"I want you."

"You do?"

"Of course I do. I want all of you, just as you want all of me."

"You know I can't give you what you can give me, Victoria."

"No, Hannibal. Really." She put the knife down, turning to face him, cupping his face in her hands, feeling the sharpness of his cheekbones. "I love you. You. But I know I can't have all of you."

"No, you can't." He stroked her hair, leaning his forehead against hers. "But soon, Victoria, you will see all of me, and you will be able to decide whether or not you want it."

"And if I don't?"

"We'll have to wait until you see it," he told her. "And whether or not you can still keep our secrets."

"What happens if I can't keep all of our secrets?"

"If you can't keep them, it would be a tragedy, my dear. Because then I would have to make sure that you don't spill them. And no one likes a senseless tragedy. I myself find them to be trite and tasteless."

"What do I need to do so we can avoid that tragedy?"

He pressed his lips to her forehead and smirked. "You'll need to trust me, Victoria."

November, 2012.

While Will Graham and Jack Crawford stayed behind as the forensics team processed the crime scene, Hannibal, Victoria, Abigail, and Alana returned to the Hobbs house. Victoria glanced back at Abigail dolefully as the young girl sobbed quietly into the tissue Alana had given her.

It wasn't fair, Victoria thought angrily. It wasn't fair that a girl as young as Abigail had been exposed to so much trauma at once. And it wasn't fair that Jack Crawford was treating the girl like she was a suspect. There were plenty of cases in which the suspect's family members had no idea of what was really going on, and they weren't treated so terribly. When they returned to Baltimore, and when Hannibal next had Jack Crawford over to dinner, Victoria was determined to be there so that she could give him a piece of her mind—albeit in the most diplomatic terms—so that he would just stop.

"Marissa shouldn't have died," Abigail wept as she leaned against Alana's shoulder. "None of them should have died. If my dad had killed me, then none of them would have died…"

"Oh, Abigail!" Victoria exclaimed.

"Abigail, you know that's not true," Alana told her gently, putting an arm around the girl's shoulders. "You don't know that for sure. You're not at fault for you father's choices."

"You sure I'm not?" Abigail said, twisting out of Alana's embrace. "How do you even know?"

"How do you even know what your dad was thinking, Abigail?" Victoria asked her softly.

"I really didn't know," Abigail admitted, wiping her nose.

"So if you didn't know, how is any of this your fault?" Alana pursued.

"It's not," Abigail said. "Not really."

They stopped at a local diner for dinner, and once they were finished eating, it was pitch black outside. Victoria was thankful for Hannibal's smooth driving on their way back to the house and for the ginger chews in her purse that eased the churning in her stomach. When she saw the lights from the police vehicles and the news trucks, however, she felt her chest constrict and the cold feeling of anxiety in her hear. She reached into her purse for another Xanax. When they got out of the car and the reporters rushed toward Abigail, Victoria couldn't help but remember. This was how it had been for her, this was how the media had treated her until her lawyers and her parents and Hannibal had stepped in…

And someone came screaming at Abigail, a hysterical woman with a tearstained face, calling Abigail a murderous little bitch, asking why it couldn't have been Abigail instead of Marissa…

"Go into the house," Hannibal muttered into Victoria's ear. When they turned to see the red mane and eager, curious face of Freddie Lounds, Victoria's grip on Hannibal's arm tightened. "Don't speak to her if you can help it," he murmured more gently. Victoria nodded, swallowing. She slowly made her way into the house, deliberately ignoring Freddie Lounds's beseeching tones.

Once she was in the house, she let out a sob. She shouldn't have been so dead set on coming here. She should have stayed in Baltimore and talked about everything with Abigail over greasy takeout once the girl had come back. She shouldn't have let Hannibal talk her into all of this, into being there for a girl who might not need her. Into being there for a girl who was broken when she herself was a mess, haphazardly glued together by Hannibal and sent out to face the world leaning on him for support.

She dashed the tears from her eyes and checked her makeup when she heard Abigail call her name from the family room. And then there was the footstep on the kitchen tile.

Victoria whirled around, dropping the compact of expensive face powder that she used. The contents of the compact cracked and spilled onto the floor, but she paid no attention to it. Instead, her mind was focused on the young man who had entered the house.

Ginger hair, unwashed. Pale face. Expression of hatred. Anger sparking in his eyes.

"You!" he exclaimed. "Who the hell are you?"

She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out but a croaking sound. But in the next instant her mind made the connections, and she drew a breath and called out, "Hannibal…"

"Shut up!" The man stalked toward her, backhanding her.

She screamed for Hannibal this time, and the young man grabbed her by the shoulders, shoving her against the wall. Her head connected with the corner of the shelf that had once held Mrs. Hobbs's wedding china, and when she struggled, the man hit her head against the shelf again, and Victoria saw stars.

"Shut up! Just shut up for a minute…I just want to talk to her…" he said as he let her crumple to the floor.

Abigail, Victoria thought as her senses dimmed. She lifted her hand to the back of her head where the pain throbbed and felt something sticky there.

And her last thoughts were filled with dread.

The baby.

"Victoria."

As she regained consciousness, the voice sounded familiar. Will Graham.

She moistened her lips, opening her eyes. "I want Hannibal. Where is he?"

"He'll be here soon, Ms. Landry." The paramedic soothed her as Will stepped aside. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Six."

"Good. Who's the president of the United States?"

"Barack Obama." She moved to sit up. "The baby…"

"You're pregnant?"

"About five weeks."

The paramedic frowned.

"Dr. Lecter," she persisted. "Where is he?"

"Just a minute." The paramedic pulled Will Graham aside, and Victoria heard them murmuring quietly to one another. Jack Crawford approached them, listening to their conversation. He then stepped into the ambulance.

"You okay?" he asked her. She nodded, leaning back against the gurney.

"I want Hannibal," she told him succinctly.

Jack sighed, glancing back at Will. "One minute. Then we're taking you to the ER. Dr. Lecter will be along shortly."

Victoria nodded, and once Hannibal was at her side, she felt relieved. He kissed her forehead, though he looked rather pale and wan himself.

"Did something happen to you?" she asked him. He took her hand.

"Don't worry about me, Victoria. I'm more concerned about you and our baby."

"He came in, Hannibal, he came in through the kitchen…" she babbled, sitting up, but he gently urged her to lie back down, shushing her.

"Jack Crawford and Will Graham are going to ride in the ambulance with you. I'll be at the hospital shortly, after I take Abigail and Alana back to the hotel."

Victoria nodded. She felt the warmth of his lips against hers. "I love you, Victoria," he said.

"Do you, Hannibal?"

She thought she saw his face darken for a moment, but then he smiled gently. "Of course I do, Victoria," he said.

Jack Crawford's questions weren't as gentle as Hannibal pretended to be. On the way to the hospital, he asked her the same prodding questions, and Victoria told him her story three times until Will implored Jack to leave off. "It's not like she's lying. Nicholas Boyle attacked her and tried to kill her. It makes sense."

Nicholas Boyle. So that was his name.

She turned the name over and over again in her head as she went through the MRI machine and throughout her ultrasound, which revealed that the baby was fine. Hannibal entered the examination room just as the nurse told Victoria about the results of the ultrasound, and he turned to the nurse inquisitively.

"You're certain the baby is fine?" he asked her.

"Of course, Mr.—"

"Doctor. Dr. Lecter." He sat on the edge of the bed, putting his arm around Victoria. "I'm the father. We're engaged to be married."

The nurse smiled. "Well, won't mother and baby be lucky? Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get Ms. Landry's prescriptions for her."

Once the nurse had left, Hannibal turned to Victoria. "He is going to pay dearly for attacking you, for threatening our baby. Make no mistake about that, Victoria."

"Who told you?..."

"Will did. And I'm so sorry, Victoria, I should have been there for you."

She wondered if he was sorrier that the baby had been threatened or that Nicholas Boyle had more or less tried to kill her. "It's all right, Hannibal," she said. "There was no way you could have known. You were with Abigail…"

"Victoria, I almost lost you. I can't face that again." His dark eyes met hers.

"We're already getting married."

"When your mother and stepfather and sisters come here for Thanksgiving, we'll get married. In my house, and I'll make a grand Thanksgiving dinner for them. We'll have a bigger ceremony and reception after the baby is born. Would you like that, Victoria?"

"You know I would, Hannibal."

He bent to kiss her, and she let her fingers play in his smooth hair. Once she pulled away from his kiss, she leaned over and whispered into his ear.

"What did you do, Hannibal?"


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Hannibal, but all original characters are mine. Thanks for all of the reviews, follows, and favorites.

Hannibal didn't answer Victoria's question right away. Instead, he drew away from her, smiling enigmatically.

"I did nothing," he said. "Nicholas Boyle attacked you, Alana, and then me, and he killed those two girls. Including Abigail's friend."

"And Abigail?"

"She fought back. When she scratched his face, he fled. She's just a little bruised."

"So Alana ended up with a concussion like I did?"

"You were the only one who ended up with stitches in her scalp." He let her rest her head against his side. She closed her eyes as he put his arm about her. "I'll remove them when the time comes. One of the perks that comes with being with a former surgeon."

"At least I know you'll do a good job," Victoria murmured. She felt his hand rest on her stomach.

"Let me take care of you," he said, "and there will be nothing else to worry about."

"I can't believe he attacked you," Claire said when Victoria called her from the hotel room later that evening. "At least you're in good hands."

"Yeah," Victoria said, watching as Hannibal turned down the covers on the bed for her. "At least I'm in good hands."

"And that Lounds bitch," Claire mentioned. "If she writes about what occurred on Tattlecrime, I hope you'll file a lawsuit."

"I don't think she'll be writing much about me or mention what happened with me in whatever articles she writes. She knows I'm lawyered up."

"I certainly hope Hannibal is. She's been writing the worst stuff about that profiler he's working with…"

"Oh, Will Graham."

"Saying that he's insane and all. If you'd like, Victoria, Lou can simply place a call courteously telling her to cease and desist or face legal action."

"What kind of legal action would she face, Mom?" Victoria said. "She's careful not to mention me in any of the articles. And I don't think Will Graham would appreciate me intervening for him like that. I only know him professionally, and not that well besides. Let the FBI handle it."

"Well, I hope they will. Let me know if you need anything else. We'll see you at Thanksgiving, and I'm sure the ceremony you and Hannibal have planned will be lovely."

"It'll be very private, Mom. At this point, we just want to be married."

Claire laughed. "He's certainly quite the romantic, isn't he?"

"Of course he is, Mom. That's why I love him."

"I'm glad you have him, Victoria. I'm glad you're going to be happy. That was all your father and I ever wanted for you, you know, even though things didn't work out between us. We just wanted you to be happy."

"I…that's sweet, Mom." Victoria's voice cracked. "Listen, it's late here. I need to go. Good night."

After she ended her conversation with her mother and put her phone aside, she took a Vicodin for the throbbing pain in her head. Hannibal came to bed beside her, scrolling through his emails on his tablet. His expression remained neutral as he read through each of them and calmly typed out a response, usually some answer to a discomfited patient. She thought she saw his brows draw together for just a moment, but the look passed just as quickly as it had come.

"Are you going to kill Nicholas Boyle?" she asked him.

He glanced down at her. "Eventually."

"All they need to do is catch him and book him on charges. There's no need to kill him. Let the law take care of it, Hannibal, please." She reached for his hand. She twined her fingers with his. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it.

"There is no way of knowing whether or not the law will take care of it properly," Hannibal told her soberly. "My method of justice will work, and it will be permanent, as you well know, Victoria. And he won't go entirely to waste."

"So he's a pig then."

"He threatened my colleague, my patient, and the mother of my child. That is enough." He turned off his tablet and put it on the bedside table. "Go to sleep, Victoria. Our flight leaves early tomorrow."

"So what do I tell Will Graham? What do I tell Jack Crawford when Nicholas Boyle's body turns up?"

"If I must, I will think of something. You and I will memorize it so that our stories are the same."

"So I'll be your alibi."

"As you always have been." He arranged the pillows to his liking and turned off the light.

"Something else happened." The Vicodin had loosened her tongue. Hannibal had been in the act of lying down, but he stopped when she said that. He leaned over her, his fingers grazing her cheekbone. She shuddered in spite of herself.

"What do you think happened?" he asked her with feigned gentleness, the menace dripping in his voice, the capacity for harming her radiating from his fingertips.

"I don't know," she said, closing her eyes. A tear slid unbidden down her cheek. "Hannibal, I don't want to know."

"Victoria, you're trembling," he noted. "Are you frightened? What frightens you?"

"You. And what you might do. Not to me, but to other people…"

"What kinds of other people, Victoria?" he persisted as he pulled the covers up more closely around her.

"People who cross you."

The corners of his lips tightened. "The painkillers are making your imagination run wild. Go to sleep, my love. I'll be here to chase your nightmares away."

It was almost as though he were talking to a child, she thought. It was almost too much to bear sometimes, this horrible secret of his, no matter how much she might love him. And the more difficult it became to bear, the more she clung to him, like he was her rock in the middle of a wild, stormy sea. She knew that if she let go, she would succumb to the waters, that she would sink within them, that she would drown…

"I love you, Victoria. Remember that, because that is the truth."

"Is it?"

"It is. That isn't a dream brought on by painkillers."

She felt her heart quake within her and she kissed him fiercely. "In the morning, tell me what happened at the Hobbs house tonight."

"You said you didn't want to know what happened."

"I do want to know. And I'll believe anything you tell me."

"Abigail Hobbs seems to be the kind of girl who attracts danger to her wherever she goes," Jeannette remarked when Victoria returned to work a few days later. "How's your head?"

"It's better. Dr. Lecter is going to remove the stitches soon."

Jeannette smiled. "How thoughtful of him."

"Well, he used to be a surgeon." Victoria nervously took a sip of her water.

"You know we're going to have to fill out an incident report, Victoria," Jeannette said matter-of-factly. "To be honest, after this, I think we should assign another advocate to Abigail and let you concentrate on admin work."

"No—you can't do that!" Victoria exclaimed, springing up from her chair. "Abigail and I have really bonded, and Dr. Bloom thinks she could make some progress with me. And Dr. Lecter…"

"See, this is what I mean, Victoria," Jeannette said, sighing audibly. "I thought you'd get too close with the girl. It seems like all of you are too close with the girl, but I'm concerned about you the most. Maybe you ought to talk to someone other than your fiancé? Maybe you're projecting some of your victimhood onto this girl?"

Victoria gritted her teeth. "I am talking to someone, not that it's any of your business. And it's not Dr. Lecter. So I'm working on it."

Jeannette turned to her computer, pulling up the template for the incident report. "How about we work on the incident report for right now?" she suggested, sidestepping any escalation in the exchange. "And I'll talk to Dr. Bloom and see what she says, whether or not you're helping Abigail Hobbs. And I also want to hear Agent Crawford's opinion on it."

"Oh, I'm sure he'll be glad to talk to you," Victoria said. "And so will Dr. Bloom."

"I'm looking forward to it, then," Jeannette replied, returning her attention to the incident report.

Will's session with Hannibal was uneventful, he supposed. It seemed they discussed the same things over and over again: the incidents in Minnesota, his sense of obligation toward Abigail. What did he mean when he said he wanted to go home?

"I was ready to go home," he told Hannibal. "I was sick of all the deaths and the violence behind them."

"Yet you were one of the people who contributed to the violence," Hannibal reminded Will. "Abigail Hobbs had a home, and you took that away from her. Do you feel guilty about that, Will?"

"Garret Jacob Hobbs was just as much at fault for it," Will pointed out. "If I hadn't killed him, there's a very good chance Abigail would've died. There was no choice."

"You didn't see any other choice at the time. You did what you felt was the right thing to do. Yet you still feel guilt."

"I took someone's life, Hannibal. Shouldn't I feel some guilt?"

"As you said yourself, you did what needed to be done." Hannibal's eyes half-closed, giving him the look of a predatory animal.

Will glanced away from Hannibal's piercing eyes, wanting to focus on something, anything. Ironically, it was the drawing of Victoria as Ophelia floating in the river, moments before she had drowned. The flowers she had once held had scattered about her, and her skirts were beginning to weigh her down, pulling her into the water. Her eyes were wide with fear, but her face bore a peaceful expression of acceptance.

And the rest is silence.

He wondered what it would be like, to be at peace like that, to have such quiet in his mind, just so that he could sleep, just so that he could live, just so that he could be.

"You seem very contemplative, Will," Hannibal said quietly. "Would you care to discuss your thoughts?"

His mind snapped back to reality. "Victoria," he said. "How is she?"

Hannibal inclined his head in surprise, uncrossing his legs. "She is doing well, thank you for asking. She is here, if you would like to see her after our session."

"Sure," Will managed, shifting in his seat. He remembered holding Victoria's hand in the ambulance as she had recounted the story of the attack three times for Jack Crawford. She had asked for Hannibal exactly ten times, had expressed her worry about the baby three times, the same amount of times she had told Jack Crawford her story…

She had been upstairs, hanging up her clothes in Hannibal's closet. Victoria was moving in, Will knew; she and Hannibal had moved up their shotgun wedding to Thanksgiving weekend when her family was going to be in town. Will had never pegged Hannibal as someone who would get married and have a family, especially not like this, but as he'd always heard, sometimes it took the right time and the right person for some people, and things just suddenly would click into place.

It was odd seeing her next to Hannibal in the living room, with Hannibal clad in his brown checkered suit and coordinating pocket square and Victoria dressed in black yoga pants and a baby pink shirt advertising some alumnae fundraiser for her sorority that had clearly taken place in 2011.

"Hannibal said you asked about me, Will," she began when Hannibal disappeared into the kitchen to see to dinner. "I'm doing fine. That was very nice of you to ask."

"You're welcome," he said, his eyes wandering to the books lining the shelves again. There was that small statue of Canova's Cupid and Psyche that he had seen last time. But there were other things now, he noted, little things Victoria had brought in, like two framed pictures of Hannibal and herself at different points in the relationship. There was a difference, he thought, between one and the other. In the earlier one she looked genuinely happy and in love, but in the more recent picture, taken at a vineyard in Sonoma Valley, she seemed to stand closer to him, her fingers interlinked with his, her other hand resting on his upper arm. Like she was leaning on him.

"Thank you for riding to the hospital in the ambulance with me," she said. "It was very kind of you to do that. I probably would have gone crazy with just Jack Crawford in there."

"Not a problem," Will said. He watched as she came to his side.

"That was taken when we were in Florence a few years ago," she said, gesturing to the picture he had noticed first. "And the vineyard—that was last year. We used to travel for three weeks each summer—because I used to teach—and now with the baby…" She sighed. "You've been so kind, Will, even though I barely know you. Thank you." She turned to him, smiling nervously.

"Anytime I can help," he heard himself say.

"Are you staying for dinner? Hannibal is making stuffed pork chops," Victoria said. "I'm sure there's plenty to go around. Do you want some wine? Or mineral water?"

"No, thanks. I ought to get going. I have to put my dogs out." That was a good excuse. Victoria nodded in understanding.

"I get it. Dogs are great, aren't they? My dad was a huge dog person, and he always had four or five. He always picked out the pound's lost causes and did great things with them. He let me pick out two or three. Once we came home with this great dane and my mom flipped." She laughed at the memory. "But Mina was a good dog. Mom grew to love her the most."

It was then that Will saw why Alana Bloom liked Victoria so much. There was so much about her that was genuine, even though she had been nervous with him at first. Still, she was guarded. She kept him at arm's length, just as she kept everyone but Hannibal at arm's length.

"I really ought to go," he repeated when Hannibal offered him some dinner. "Next time?"

"Have Thanksgiving dinner with us, Will," Hannibal urged as he placed his hands on Victoria's shoulders. "Victoria's mother, stepfather, and sisters will be here, as will Alana. Why not join us?"

Will shifted uneasily. No doubt Hannibal was sincere, but it was just too much. "Thanks a lot," he said, "but I have someplace to go already."

When he got into his car, he glanced behind him at the narrow window beside the front door of Hannibal's grand house. It looked as though Hannibal and Victoria were deep in conversation, and then Hannibal drew Victoria into an embrace, kissing the top of her head.

Almost as though he were consuming her.

"I don't want him to find out about Robert McCarren, Hannibal. I like Will. He's a good person…"

"He won't find out, Victoria." Hannibal drew her to him, kissing her hair. "I love you, Victoria."

She felt compelled to say the words. "I love you, Hannibal."

"This is ridiculous. Do you know what time it is?" Victoria demanded as she saw Abigail sitting on the stairs.

"Eleven o'clock."

"You woke me up."

Abigail made a face. "Well, Hannibal—Dr. Lecter—is taking me back. So you can go back to bed if you want."

"Hannibal is usually in bed by now." Usually.

"He can go to bed when he gets back."

"That's not the point, Abigail," Victoria snapped out as Hannibal came into the foyer. "There are boundaries. You have to respect them."

Abigail clenched her jaw, standing up as Hannibal picked up his car keys. "Are you ready to go, Abigail?"

"Yeah," Abigail mumbled. She followed him out to the garage. Victoria breathed a sigh of relief when the girl had gone.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Hannibal, but all original characters are mine. Thanks for all of the reviews, favorites, and follows!

A joint appointment with Hannibal to see Dr. du Maurier was the last thing Victoria wanted right now, but it had been scheduled before their trip to Minnesota with Abigail Hobbs.

She sat sulkily in the passenger seat of Hannibal's Bentley, toying with the bottle of Vitawater she had brought with her. "I'm really not ready to talk about what occurred in Minnesota, Hannibal."

"We don't need to discuss it." His voice was quiet, calm.

"Does she know, Hannibal? Does she know about what we did?"

He glanced at her. "Why do you think she'd know, Victoria?"

"Doesn't she know…"

"Do you think I'd be foolish enough to tell her, and put you in danger?" He returned his gaze to the road.

"No, but…"

"Then follow my example and don't be foolish. Please, Victoria." The addition of please seemed to be an afterthought.

"We haven't yet discussed Abigail," Victoria said.

"What is there to discuss about Abigail?"

"She can't continue to sneak out of the hospital and come to your house, Hannibal. It's not…good."

"Which is why I took her directly back to the hospital. The staff at Port Haven called and made me aware of it."

"Has Alana been made aware of it?"

"I'm sure she has."

"Well, soon your house is going to be our house. If she wants to come and stay, I don't have a problem with it as long as it's prearranged. But she needs to learn that she can't come sneaking in whenever she feels like it."

"And you're supposed to be advocating for her and acting in her best interests."

"Not at the expense of mine. Boundaries, Hannibal, it's all about boundaries."

"Why not let me continue to set my own boundaries with Abigail as I see fit, while you continue to do so with yours?"

"Hannibal, she looks to you and Will Graham as father figures."

"Does she?" Hannibal said, the corners of his lips turning up into a half-smile. "And how serendipitous that is, since I'm going to become a father."

She turned to look at him, her eyes not leaving his face. He was so good at hiding so much, but she knew better than that. There was something else going on, something dark and sinister that she knew he was deliberately keeping her out of.

"What are you doing, Hannibal?"

He pulled into Dr. du Maurier's driveway, and once he put the car into park he looked up at Victoria, his face as impassive as always. "Why does it concern you?"

"You're playing with them, aren't you?" she accused, unbuckling her seatbelt. "You're playing with them…all of them…"

"Why would you believe such a thing?" he asked her, his eyes growing hard. "It's true that I'm interested in Will Graham's mind and in what insight Abigail might have to offer regarding her father's through process, but I am in no way playing with them. I am as interested in them as Jack Crawford is."

"I want to believe you."

"I'm telling you the truth, Victoria."

"Are you?"

He smiled at her. "I have no reason to lie to you, Victoria."

She knew that he wasn't sincere, but in that moment she believed him. For no matter what Hannibal did, he was careful to keep her out of it now, after what had occurred with Robert McCarren. He knew that she still harbored terrible feelings of guilt over what they had done, though McCarren had deserved it a thousand times over. After that night, he had begun to shield her from the horrible things he did, except for that time with Miriam Lass. Yet she still knew that he fed her and other people humans as food, she still knew about the rooms in the basement that held his secrets, but she pretended these things didn't exist when she was with him. He had made it clear that he had chosen her to be the woman in his life and the mother of his child. He had given her freedom, he had given her the world, and he would do it a thousand times again, so long as she kept his secrets.

And this one she would keep as well.

The joint session with Dr. du Maurier was a complete sham.

Dr. du Maurier led the conversation, and it was mostly about breaking the codependent pattern that Hannibal and Victoria had set for themselves, that Hannibal must allow—even force—Victoria to handle things on her own and that Victoria must stop depending on Hannibal to do certain things for her.

If only Dr. du Maurier knew.

"Is there something you want to say in our next appointment, Victoria?" Dr. du Maurier asked her when Hannibal went to get their coats.

Victoria regarded the woman in front of her. Dr. du Maurier was usually cucumber cool when it came to dealing with Hannibal, and she cleverly deflected his attempts to penetrate the wall of professional detachment she had built around herself. But now she seemed different, as though she were honestly concerned about Victoria.

"No," Victoria said resolutely. "There's really nothing else to discuss."

November flew by, and soon it was Thanksgiving. And by the end of this weekend, Victoria Landry was going to become Victoria Landry-Lecter. She had decided long ago to hyphenate her married and maiden names, something which Hannibal seemed to support wholeheartedly.

"I can't believe that this is all going to be yours," Claire remarked as she walked into the house, her eyes sweeping over the exquisite antique furniture almost enviously. "All of these things, all of these lovely things…"

It almost made Victoria angry, the way her mother seemed to regard Hannibal's material wealth as something that counted as love. But then that was how her mother had always been, she knew. A mediocre actress had a career for as long as her youth would last, and after that, well, who knew? So Claire had found August Landry, left her first husband for him. Then there was Stuart. And Claire loved Stuart, despite his faults.

So ergo, Claire would regard Hannibal as the perfect husband for her daughter: wealthy, erudite, intelligent, charming, refined. A man who cooked and a man who liked to keep his house clean without leaving a mess for his wife. How considerate of Hannibal to do this or do that! How kind of Hannibal to have us over for Thanksgiving each year and put up with the girls! How wonderful it is you're marrying Hannibal! He'll be such a good father to the baby!

He would be, in so many ways. But still, there was the darker aspect of it…

Run, Victoria. You can run, if you want to, and never look back.

But she knew that if she ran, he would hunt her down and find her, cajole her into coming back to him, remind her of that night and what they had done, remind her that their child couldn't be without a father.

Have I ever hurt you, Victoria? Have I given you cause to be frightened of me? I would do anything to ensure your happiness, Victoria. I gave you freedom. I gave you the world. I saved you from living your life in that cage that monster imposed upon you. I love you, Victoria.

"You're way too quiet," Ashlynne remarked, coming to sit down on the couch in the living room by Victoria. Ashlynne was a miniature of their mother, with cool green eyes and blond hair now dyed a deep red and cut into a long bob with a fringe that skimmed her eyelashes.

"I'm just tired," Victoria said, plastering a smile on her face. "Moving, marriage, and pregnancy all at the same time can do that to you."

Ashlynne nodded, her brow furrowing incredulously. "I'm applying to colleges. Mom wants me to stay in California, but I want to be here in Baltimore with you and the baby."

"Why do you want to be here in Baltimore? There's a lot more in California for dance," Victoria reminded Ashlynne.

Ashlynne toyed with the bracelet that adorned her wrist. "I don't want to go into dance. I want to go to medical school."

This didn't surprise Victoria. Ashlynne was an accomplished student and excelled in math and science, and she had been contemplating going into either medicine or engineering for some time.

"Hannibal said that Johns Hopkins is a good school. I applied there already, and he said..."

"What did he say?"

"He said that he might be able to put a good word in for me." Ashlynne beamed, her eyes brightening. "Wouldn't that be great? I could live in the dorms, and he said I could come over here any time I needed to study, or for dinner, or just to help with the baby. I mean, I'd call before I came and everything, because I know how he is…and I know how you are."

Victoria tensed at this. "How am I, Ashlynne?"

"You like your privacy. You and Hannibal like your time together." Ashlynne shrugged. "I get it. He seems to only let people get to know certain parts of him, but he's let you get to know all of him. There must be a lot there, Victoria…"

You're wrong. There's nothing there, underneath that mask. Nothing. "There is a lot there, Ashlynne."

"It's going to be great," Ashlynne said, getting up from the couch. "I'm going to see you more, and I'll be able to get to know him better—because he's going to be my brother-in-law. And he said that since we don't have brothers, he'd take the job and look out for us like brothers should. Breanna and Sienna and me, he said he'd look out for us."

Victoria rose from the couch, too. "When did he tell you all this?"

"Just now. After you left the kitchen to get away from Mom and Dad."

"I didn't leave to get away from Mom…" Victoria protested. Ashlynne rolled her eyes.

"Come on, Victoria, you think I'm stupid? Mom drives you crazy. It's like you're still a teenager and you can't stand her."

"And this is coming from a teenager," Victoria said as she led Ashlynne into the kitchen.

"I'm a lot more perceptive than people think," Ashlynne said, laughing.

"Then don't let them know that you're so perceptive," Victoria hissed into her ear before they entered the kitchen, where Hannibal was in the process of preparing tomorrow's Thanksgiving dinner and entertaining Claire, Breanna, and Sienna in the process. Stuart had fled to the safety of one of the guest rooms upstairs so that he could get some work done and could conduct a few conference calls back in California before business closed for the long weekend.

"Show me how to cut the peppers like that—how to julienne them," Breanna pleaded. Hannibal smiled down at her benevolently.

"Would you like to try?" he asked her. Breanna's eyes widened.

"You'll let me?" she breathed.

"Do you and Sienna want to help me?" he persisted. "Your sister has helped me prepare many meals." He glanced up at Victoria meaningfully, a small smile crossing his lips.

You've helped me not only in the preparation, but in the choosing of the meat, he seemed to be implying.

"It's all right," Claire said, glancing up from her IPad. "Just be careful with the knives."

"Be assured, Claire, that they are in very good hands. I am told I am an excellent teacher. Victoria, I have an excellent Chianti that your mother might like. Why not go downstairs to get it?"

"Sure," Victoria replied quickly. Hannibal reached into his pants pocket for the key, and Victoria went to retrieve it from him. As he placed the key into her hand, he bent down to kiss her on the cheek. He explained away the reason for the key, that while his wine cellar was in the basement, so were his patient files, and he wished to keep those safe from prying eyes.

She made the trip short and sweet, picking out one of the bottles of Chianti he had just ordered from Italy, and hurried up the stairs, returning the key to him.

"I always trust your taste in wine, Hannibal," Claire said as Victoria set the bottle down and went for some wine glasses. "And food. Victoria, you're spoiled. This baby is going to be spoiled, too, with how Hannibal cooks."

Victoria, who had been looking for the corkscrew, whirled around in shock. Calmly, Hannibal retrieved the corkscrew from the drawer and did the honors of opening the wine bottle and pouring it out, taking the glass over to Claire.

"The baby won't be on solids for some time," he told Claire, "but I will try my hand at cooking for it when the time comes." He returned to Victoria's side, sipping his wine, closing his eyes as he savored the taste. Victoria sipped some of the wine, too, though she didn't taste it.

"It's wonderful, Hannibal," Claire pronounced as she put down her glass. "Good choice, as always. Have you chosen anything special to go with tomorrow's menu?"

He patiently took Breanna's hands into his and showed her how to dice the onions and celery as the stuffing recipe called for, but he looked up from his work to reply to Claire. "Of course I have, both wine and beer, as Dr. Bloom prefers beer."

"And what's on the menu for tomorrow, other than the traditional things?" Ashlynne queried, sitting down at the small breakfast table beside her mother.

"You will see tomorrow," he replied. "But I will drop a hint, Ashlynne—nothing on the menu is vegetarian."

"Well," Ashlynne commented, "I guess it's good no one here is a vegetarian."

Hannibal laughed. "It is a very good thing that no one here is a vegetarian." And his eyes once again were on Victoria, and the secretive smile graced his lips again, as though he were sharing some private joke with her that she didn't think was very funny at all.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Hannibal, but all original characters are mine.

"You're not feeding them…game, are you?" Victoria asked Hannibal quietly as they got ready for bed. He watched her reflection in the mirror as she folded up the towel she had been using and put it back in its proper place.

"Why would I feed them what you would call game?" he replied, his eyes fixed on her.

"I don't know. I was just wondering if you would. This year."

"Not this year, Victoria." He set his toothbrush in its holder and followed her out of the bathroom. "Your mother has behaved herself this year, and don't you think she ought to be rewarded for it?"

"That's not how it should work."

"It sufficed for Pavlov's dog." He sat on his side of the bed. "Why are you so preoccupied, Victoria?"

She pulled back the coverlet and sheets on her side of the bed and sat down, too. What ought she to say? "The baby, Hannibal," she mustered. "If they find out about Robert McCarren, about what we did to him, what will happen to the baby?"

He seemed almost offended at this, as though her question was something rude. He raised his brows, his forehead creasing with the motion, and he replied, "Should anything happen, you and the baby would be taken care of, Victoria."

"How?"

"You can always be blind, Victoria."

"Then make it so I can be blind," she pleaded, leaning over and staring up at him. "The baby and me—let us be blind…"

He stroked her hair, kissing her forehead. "Once we are married," he promised, "I will make arrangements for you and the baby, in case something unfortunate should happen."

"Hannibal."

"Why are you looking at me like that, Victoria?" he queried.

Her eyes pricked with tears. "Because I love you so much."

His eyes softened, and he wiped her tears away. "What reason is there to weep, Victoria?"

"I don't know…"

"Go to sleep," he soothed. "You're tired. Tomorrow I will make everything wonderful for you. And in a few days, you will be Victoria Landry-Lecter, my wife and the mother of my child."

"I need something to sleep."

"Of course you do," he said, rising from the bed and kissing her again. "I'll go downstairs and make you some tea."

A few moments later he brought her a mug of chamomile tea mixed with milk and honey, which she drank under his close eye. And it did make her sleepy, and she nearly dropped the mug before he took it from her. He set it on his bedside table, then edged toward her.

"Hold me, Hannibal," she heard herself slur out. "Hold me and don't let go…I need you…"

He took her into his arms, and somehow, despite the heaviness in her limbs, she felt like something fragile and delicate, his treasure, his prize. The cottony haze of her mind made her think of the cartoon film Aladdin¸ of the scene in which Jasmine had declared, "I am not a prize to be won!"

Hannibal had already won her. She was his prize.

She only wondered how long he would keep her as such until his fancy for her faded.

This is my design.

No, Will. This is what we did.

June, 2010.

At Hannibal's urging she called McCarren, playing the woman who had chosen to finally submit to his pursuits.

During the fourth call, she brought up the subject of a rendezvous at Hannibal's cottage on the Susquehanna River, and McCarren drawled, "I wanna fuck you so bad, Tora. It won't be like it is with that queer you've been fucking. I'll make you come so hard…"

Victoria shuddered when she heard this, and Hannibal squeezed her hand. "Oh, it sounds like it'll be amazing," she said. "I can't wait. I'm so wet for you even right now…"

He said a host of other things that made her want to throw up and that made Hannibal cringe. When she hung up with McCarren she made a face. "I know it's all talk, but I seriously can't get over what he said he wants to do to me," she told Hannibal.

Hannibal placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "He must be allowed to think that you have finally come to your sense and will yield to him. You must keep up this façade, Victoria. You are doing well."

"Hannibal." She turned to him, her eyes full of tears.

"You're frightened, Victoria?"

She nodded.

"I will find something for you to take so that you will have no nightmares," he promised. "In chamomile tea with milk and honey?"

She nodded. "And will you hold me all night?"

"Of course I will, Victoria. If it will protect you from the nightmares."

"Hannibal."

"What is it, Victoria?"

She swallowed. "I love you, Hannibal."

November, 2013.

"I think it was foolish of you to take on Abigail Hobbs. You should have let another advocate handle it," Claire said witheringly once Hannibal had ushered the girls into the kitchen early Thanksgiving afternoon.

"That's not your decision to make, Mom," Victoria said as she hung up Sienna's coat. She turned to stare at her mother levelly for a moment. "Hannibal's colleague Dr. Bloom suggested it."

"Did she?" Claire's mouth quirked. "Is Alana a friend of Hannibal's…and yours?"

"More of a friend of Hannibal's, but I like her." Victoria led her mother into the living room. Claire sighed again at the lovely paintings and sculptures that decorated it. She ran her hands over the soft cushion of the chair she had chosen

"How is Hannibal going to baby proof everything?" she asked. "As soon as the baby starts walking—even crawling-you'll have to put everything up."

"Hannibal will figure it out," Victoria said, aching for another Xanax.

Sorry, Mischa.

Sorry, Mischa, sorry, Mischa, sorry, Mischa.

"Victoria, you need to lay down the law with him…"

"Shut up, Mom."

Her mother's jaw dropped. "What did you just say to me, Victoria?"

"I said for you to shut up, Mom. Our relationship is none of your business."

"Victoria."

"I mean it, Mom," Victoria heard herself say. "This is our house now, not yours. You don't get a say on what goes on here."

"Victoria…"

"This house. You don't understand this house. It was a sanctuary for me. Now it's going to be mine, mine just as much as it is his. Don't you get it, Mom?"

"No, I don't, Victoria." Claire's voice was quiet. "What does this house mean to you?"

"He wanted me, Mom. He always wanted me…for me. He wants me to be who I am, not what everyone else thinks I should be. And now…now I'm going to have a baby, our baby, his and mine."

"Is this what you want, Victoria?" Claire ventured quietly.

"You know it is, Mom." Victoria's lower lip began to tremble. "You know it is."

"I don't know anything about you, anymore. You shut us out….you shut me out after your father died."

"Did I, Mom? You blew me off. All those years, you blew me off. Hannibal didn't." Victoria straightened.

"So here we are," Claire said dryly. "We play our parts. To the end."

"If you see it that way, Mom," Victoria said as she went into the kitchen. "More wine?"

"Please."

The kitchen. Hannibal was there, putting some pies in the oven to bake. Him, that was what she wanted. Him.

"You're all right, Victoria?" he asked her gently, tilting his head inquisitively. An obligatory gesture for a father-to-be, watching over the mother of his child.

A mimic.

He didn't mean it.

He mirrored Stuart, mirrored Jack, mirrored even Will Dog-hoarder Graham.

He even mirrored her.

"I'm fine," she replied, pouring herself some more wine. "God, I wish my mom had stayed in Burbank."

"She is being that difficult?" Hannibal tutted, approaching her and burying his nose in her hair. "Don't worry, my love, I will handle it."

"You handle everything."

"Because I love you."

"Do you?"

She stepped away from him, her blue eyes boring into his amber ones. He stared down at her for a moment, clinically, as though she were nothing more than a patient to him. "Of course I do, Victoria," he replied. "Am I not marrying you tomorrow?"

"Do you even know what love is, Hannibal?" she whispered, her eyes filling with tears.

"With you," he said, approaching her and laying a gentle hand on her cheek, "I have discovered what it is."

And to feel his lips against her own, so warm and comforting. He loved her, he wanted this baby and this life that they could have just as much as she did. She had long ago accepted the worst parts of him, and she would continue to accept them, even if it killed her.

How much did you know, Victoria? Were you okay with him throwing me under the bus like that?

You don't know what it's like, Will, knowing what he is and somehow having him convince you to be okay with it for years and years and years.

I have an idea. And I'm sure I can get what happened with you. I'm very good at empathizing with people. Remember?

Are you and Jack going to throw me under the bus, Will?

That's Jack's decision. Not mine. Luckily, Jack is far more understanding about your situation than I am, and somehow, Hannibal is doing what he can to make sure you don't get charged, too. Jack and I think you and Zoe are good candidates for witness protection.

You think we are?

I'm insisting you are. After all of this is over, I don't ever want to see you or hear about you again.

Just married.

Just married.

"How does it feel?" Alana asked Victoria after the ceremony had taken place.

Victoria shrugged. "I don't feel any different. It's always been just Hannibal and me…"

Alana frowned, her brow furrowing. "Maybe it will take a little bit of time to sink in," she suggested. "Do you have names for the baby picked out?"

"Hannibal and I like Zoe Michaela. Michaela was the name of his sister who died as a child."

"I didn't know he had a sister."

"He never told you?"

"Victoria, Hannibal hasn't told very many people about a lot of things. You seem to be the exception. He loves you, Victoria. It seems like he's told you everything."

Victoria watched as Alana left the library and headed to the kitchen to help Hannibal with the nuptial meal.

The night passed in a blur for Victoria, though she managed to smile and nod her way through it, just as she had trained herself so many years ago. She even was able to keep up appearances and be good to her mother, who was no doubt proud to see her daughter married to the man she loved, but a little disappointed that it wasn't a huge wedding.

But then it wasn't her wedding. And besides, she was sure Hannibal wouldn't want a huge wedding.

But it occurred to her that she had never really asked him about it. They had agreed on this.

He had agreed to it because he had simply wanted the protection marriage to her would offer.

June, 2010.

"Zip ties, Hannibal. Why do you need zip ties?" Victoria asked him when she saw the contents of the bag from Home Depot. It was almost funny, because Hannibal was the sort of man who would step into a Home Depot to get what he needed to complete some weekend project around the house. She tried to conjure up a mental picture of him wandering through the aisles, perfectly pressed suit and all, calmly filling the cart with the required items.

"Why do we need zip ties," he corrected, kissing her on the temple and burying his nose in her hair. "Do you know how to use them?"

She shook her head. He smiled deviously and took her hand, leading her to the study. "Then let me teach you how. And I will allow you to practice on me."

"You're sure?" she asked him, clutching the bag in her free hand as he opened the door to the study.

"If you are worried about hurting me, Victoria, there is no need for that. It is a risk I am ready to take."

"So I can practice whatever I learned in self-defense class on you?" she said playfully, watching as he removed his jacket and tie and unbuttoned the sleeves of his shirt.

"Within reason."

Within reason meant that Hannibal was still ruthless and determined that she perfect the maneuvers he had taught her, and soon Victoria found herself straddling him and fastening the zip tie around his wrists as he lay beneath her, watching her. "You are much too cruel, Victoria," he told her, and she traced his bottom lip with her index finger before kissing it.

"You have no idea of how cruel I can be," she whispered into his ear before removing the zip ties from his wrists. He pressed her close to him as he kissed her, and in those moments, in that house, they were the only two people in the world, and the rules and laws governing everyone else did not apply to them.


End file.
